


Lost and Found Again

by ThatFeanorian



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aman (Tolkien), Cousins, Family, Feuds, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Loss, Middle Earth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2020-03-29 20:17:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19027186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatFeanorian/pseuds/ThatFeanorian
Summary: Brought together to mend all of the rips in their family and to destroy the last evil which lurks in Arda, Túrukano, Findaráto, and Varyannë must settle the differences of the once house of Finwë to destroy Sauron and reconcile themselves with one another.Story of reconciliation, friendship, adventure, bringing in as many 3rd age characters as physically possible. Romance? probably (knowing me)... we'll see.Definately still in progress, don't kill me if the updates are slow, school is a lot right now.





	1. Prologue

It was in peace. Years spent desperately hoping to flee, and finally it’s wish had been granted. Freedom was beautiful, and it glowed with happiness to be able to look up and see the swirling cosmos above it, its existence solely tied to the joy and wonder inspired by looking upon that endless mirage. It could vaguely see the pillars and floor upon which it rested but it’s attention was fixed solely on the vision it beheld above it. The others moving around it were inconsequential, the one who had brought it here, meaningless in the face of the vast beauty now within it’s sight. It was awed and humbled by the canvas, watching the nothing above it being slowly expanded and changed, the ever shifting beauty never diminishing, only seeming to grow the more it watched.  
Loath to turn away from the glory of the cosmos, it ignored for a moment the cool hand tightening around it, drawing it back to the hall in which it rested, surrounded by the others who had died. Námo stood, tall and imposing, his grey cloak concealing the high cheek-boned, pale face it knew it would see beneath the hood, and it felt no fear. Námo was not one to be feared. He had saved it, and it was grateful. It knew however where Námo wanted to take it, and this was what it feared, the brilliantly orange emotion washing over it and exposing it’s anxiety. Námo allowed his grip to soften, and within its conscience, it heard the deep rumbling voice murmur,  
‘Do not fear Little Star, you will not feel the pain of the living.’ It recoiled at the sound of its name, it was not Little Star anymore. Little Star was the one who was gone, the one it had escaped from and it didn’t want to go back, too much pain had Little Star endured, and no more did it want to feel. Still, Námo was now its master, and it must listen. It allowed Námo to draw it away from the company of the others who were no more and into the room of memories, it’s glow becoming more bright with fear with every step. Outside the archway to the room, Námo paused again and questioned it, his voice sounding once again in the depths of its existence,  
“What is it you fear so Little Star?” He asked, ignoring it’s disgusted reaction to the name, and patiently waiting for a reply as it tried to formulate a response with its limited means of communication, After struggling to find a reason for it’s fear for a few uncounted moments it stretched out feeling Námo’s presence and conveyed a series of feelings,  
anger, family, love, loss, death. Despite the rudimentary explanation, Námo seemed to sense what was meant beneath the message, his grip nearly letting it escape back into the crowd of lost ones, but not quite,  
‘You needn't enter yet if you feel unready.” He said, his voice, gravely with unforeseen emotion; surely, it thought, he wasn’t so kind to all who entered his hall, and out of them, it deemed itself the least worthy of such a demonstration.  
Knowing the phrase to nonetheless be nothing but a formality, for it did indeed have to face memory, it sent once again a message to Námo’s presence,  
Fear, resolution, acceptance. It couldn’t perceive Námo’s countenance, but it was sure the face had uplifted into as pleasant an expression as the keeper was capable of. It allowed him to lead it forward into the room, and then with a final burst of brilliant fiery orange fear, allowed the memories to devour it.  
Green trees, a blonde boy running in front of her, pausing just long enough to allow her to stretch out her fingers to reach him before sprinting off again, agile as a deer, her laughter hopeless and bittersweet, for as fun as their game was she knew she would never reach her brother. 

A voice calling through the expansive house,  
“Turko, Moryo, Curvo, Varya, where are you?” She recognized the voice of Neylo and giggled, sliding back farther into the corner in which she hid, Moryo reaching out to hug her and pull her farther back lest she reveal their place.

The tears tracing down her cheeks as she left for the last time, knowing deep in her heart, while her mind attempted to deny it, that she would never touch her mother again.

The blood that stained her sword as she sobbed, driving it through one after another, all the while wishing she could go back and undo her actions, praying for their safe passage and rebirth.

Her father, dead before her eyes as she screamed curses at the heavens for leaving them alone.  
The city, shining and white, her hand in another’s, his eyes bright with the joy of new love, a secret on his lips which she would never get to hear, his hair tickling her cheek as he leaned close, golden locks blending with her chestnut ones.

Her scream, unheard in the heat of the battle as she saw the balrog, and her realization that he would not see quickly enough, her aching muscles as she ran to him, driving the sword into the Balrog, only to have him turn towards her.

The last moment as she died, watching his death and knowing that not only was she gone, he was too.

pain… Pain… PAIN, she wanted to be free from all the pain, and the final figure of Námo appearing, as she knew she would never get to say goodbye to her brothers.

It careened backwards, unable to escape the flood of memories, screaming in agony. If it had been capable of such a thing it was sure it would have cried. What was Little Star’s life worth? Nothing to it, not now, yet all Little Star had gone through, all the pain, suffering, hope, and then ultimate loss had been bottled up inside it, and to see Little Star’s life again in front of it had been more painful than dying at the hands of that thrice damned balrog.  
It wanted to flee, to run and find solace amongst the others like it once more, free to gaze with wonder at the endless nothing above it, content to wait until the world’s ending for rebirth, for with a life like the one it had lead it certainly wouldn’t be reborn. It made itself small before Námo, not wishing for him to see its misery, the brilliantly purple rays emanating off of it showing more than any expression of the living its horror and agony over what it had just seen. Námo was quiet, his grip upon it gone, knowing its pain would keep it in place, and waited for it to speak.  
Agony, loss, disappointment, death. It sent him, and he gave one grave nod before replying in its existence,  
‘Yet within that also great hope, and wasted life. A life such as Little Star’s should never be ignored’ It disagreed strongly and conveyed as much, making Námo laugh, and shake his head,  
‘We judge you as worthy, we are sending you back.’ It wanted to run, it wanted to scream, to hide, to flee from those words, but it was rooted in place by their power. It glowed as brilliantly golden as the sun itself, and then disappeared from the hall of the dead. Námo sighed quietly, there would be dispute over his choice for her, but he was sure what he was doing was right. It was all written in Eru Iluvatar’s song, and that song shaped the world. He could not ignore the song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys, it means a lot to me. my updates might be a little slow, as I mentioned in the summary, but I hope you'll stick with it. I might be using a mix of Quenyan and Sindarin names, so here's a quick guide to names in case it's confusing (I hope its not)
> 
> SINDARIN:MOTHER:FATHER:NICKNAME
> 
> Maedhros:Maitimo:Nelyafinwë:Nelyo
> 
> Maglor:Macalaurë:Canafinwë:Cano
> 
> Celegorm:Tyelkormo:Turkafinwë:Turko/Tyelko (I've seen both used, I'll use Turko)
> 
> Caranthir:Carnistir:Morifinwë:Moryo
> 
> Curufin:Atarinkë:Curufinwë:Curvo
> 
> (If any of these are wrong, don't sue me sue the internet for being a lying piece of s***)
> 
> Varyannë means woman of healing, and I'll also be using the Sindarin "Aistel" which means little star, or daughter of starlight, depending on how you translate it. I credit those names to FantasyNameGenorator, because wow, I definitely did not come up with those. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading, I'll hope to update soon, and if you have any ideas for where you think the story should go, I'd love to hear them, because I honestly don't really have a plan.


	2. Chapter 1: Varyannë

The ground was warm, warmer than anything Varyannë had felt it a long time, the kind of heat that flows through your skin, and kisses your soul until it grows dizzy. She let out a soft sigh, and relaxed into the warmth, not wanting to move. There was light somewhere above her, brilliant and causing her eyelids pulse blood red with her heartbeat. It hurt, but everything hurt when you were alive. She slowly became aware that she had fingers, toes, arms and legs and that they could move. She could feel something moving over one of her arms but was in no manner interested in opening her eyes to discover what it might be that crawled on top of her body.

Her body. Her eyes flew open, and Varyannë bolted upright, the light momentarily blinding her. A wild look quickly cast around the clearing proved to her that she was alone, a fact that in itself calmed her a little; When you were alone there was no one to disappoint or hurt. A cynical huff escaped her lips at that thought, how far she had come, how far they all had if that was the first thought to appear within her mind.

Glancing around, she took in the clearing in which she found herself, a small space with slightly browning grass and fiery leaves overhead. There was little to nothing unique about this place, no indicator that could hint to her where she was or in which direction one should travel should that one wish to survive. Beneath her bare feet Varyannë felt the light poking of dying grass, an ever so slightly painful sensation cleverly designed to remind he who traversed it that they were living and prone to loose that privilege at any moment. She let out a humorless laugh at the Valar's idiocy, for indeed they could give her these reminders, yet with no weapons nor shoes, nor any idea of where in Arda she was, it would do very little good and she would see herself back before Námo within two weeks. Casting a glance above her at the brilliant rays of sunshine filtering through the golden and red leaves, Varyannë grimaced, soon Arien would disappear and if intuition was any sign, there was little chance that she found herself anywhere safe or familiar. Choosing to follow the trajectory of the sun's descent, she set off, seeking to keep it within her sights as long as possible and the darkness at her back. West always had been the direction of home, and she hoped it proved as much in this moment.

The sounds of life enthralled Varyannë as she made her way steadily in the wake of Arien, the light rustling of leaves and the creaking of branched against one another, a language that long ago Turko might have translated proudly, the light and happy songs of birds as they made their ways to bed, and the quieter less obvious noises, the sound of her feet brushing against the grass and moss, and the quiet rustles of other, larger animals around her, ones that regularly made her jump and wish once again that she had been sent with anything as vital as a weapon. Indeed, Varyannë thought wryly, better to be naked and armed than to be clothed and unarmed. Lots of good it would do her to be speared straight through the golden dress resting lightly on her frame. In fact, the dress would prohibit any running, the original reason Varyannë had abandoned the ridiculous clothing in the first place favoring instead the less restrictive hunting clothing of her brothers.

A glance upwards into the sky sent a frown across her lips, the light fading much more quickly from the sky than she had anticipated and remembered. The purples, oranges, and pinks streaked across the sky now like a painters canvas. She had counted on not seeing these for an hour more at least, and still surrounded by the monotonous trees that would offer her no landmarks, nor even an unobstructed view of the sky and horizon, Varyannë sped up her pace, hoping to find a clearing similar to the one which she had awoken in.

The last rays of sunlight had long disappeared before she allowed herself to rest, scooping leaves into her arms to use as a pillow despite their slight molding and scratches she knew were likely to form from dream induced movement. Varyannë closed her eyes, blocking out the faint light of the stars above her, a reminder if nothing else had been that the Valar were ever watchful, however distant and cold they seemed from her position on the ground.

How comforting, she thought, to know that there are beings out there assessing our mistakes and failures and not bothering to step in when we are killed, their supposed favorites, like rats by one of their own.

Varyannë turned her face away from the sky, hiding the silver streak sliding down her face, the dampness reflecting that cold light from the stars,

How comforting to know that no matter how hard I try to right assumed wrongs, I will never see them again. She slowly slid into unconsciousness with that final thought and a flare of anger, drifting into the land of dreams, which before long she would grow to hate and fear.

*****

A bloody red-ish flickering light filled the air around her, the sound of slightly hysterical laughter echoing up towards the sky along with the scent of smoke and the crackling sparks of fire. She frantically searched the watching crowd, eyes scanning and anxiously pushing through the tightly assembled throng in a vain attempt to locate her brother. Her cries of,

"Ambarussa? Pityo? Where are you?" Were echoed by six other voices as her siblings drew steadily nearer to the center of the crowd and to her. Already, she knew that his face wouldn't be numbered among the survivors, and involuntary hot tears began to inch their ways down her cheeks. The large angry crowd seemed suddenly too tight, too hot, too confining, the enormous ships burning to ashes behind them a hateful crime rather than the "justifiable retaliation" her father had described it to be, his honeyed words convincing them all in seconds that it would be good fun, allowing them to laugh as they placed their torches on the boats and let their conscience sleep, forgetting the love between cousins in one red hot moment of gleeful malice.

She didn't and wouldn't ever understand what had blinded them in that instant to the pain and evil they were inflicting, the pain and evil that hardly made them better than Morgoth himself. Her father's spell had only broken by the realization that only eight, not nine had participated in the atrocity. Wordlessly, she reached her brothers, her desperate pleas for Pityo's appearance dying on hrt tongue as she met Telvo's eyes.

Her little brother, now her only little brother. Tears streamed in fiery orange arcs down her face, the flames in which her brother now rested flickering within the salty pain writing it's way across her face, and she took him into her arms.

Though the rest of the world remained unaware, watching trust and friendship burn with bright eyes, the seven siblings stood, each in grief beyond expression, all desperately grabbing onto one another as if able to convince themselves by the mere action that it was just a dream. Through her flood of tears she looked upwards, towards her father standing at the head of the crowd, his sword raised in triumph. He was ignorant of, or more likely ignoring the remorse of his children, back rod straight, hard anger written in every sharp angle of his body, Perhaps he, like she had expected some catharsis from the action that had failed to be given, perhaps he, like she now felt remorse over the unnecessary crime. Their eyes met, and in them she saw her pain, her anguish, but none of her regret. Clutching her brothers closer, she turned away from him. Her father, to her knowledge, had never in his life felt guilt over his actions, yet somehow this did nothing to ease the pain, and indeed made it all the worse. Now she knew, that no matter how much they lost; home, family, love, Fëanáro would never regret his actions.

It was all fire, even when she closed her eyes, the flames still burned her lids, the brilliant oranges, reds, yellows, and blues refusing to let her be, refusing to let her have respite from the terror she had just taken part in. She wanted to scream, but here, trapped inside herself, she couldn't bring her mouth to open and allow the anguish to surface. Everything was fire. Everything was burning. Everything was lost.

*****

She bolted upright with a gasp, threw a single wild glance around herself, and let out a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very little action here and for the purposeful mutilation and destruction of fragile sanity
> 
> **I am a little guilty, and did, in fact, think about changing the dream, but no I enjoy purposefully torturing readers ;)**
> 
> Next chapter (hopefully) there will be a little more action, and I hope to not completely fail at writing that. 'Til next time!


	3. Chapter 2: Varyannë

She hated herself for that moment of weakness, going from sleeping hell to waking hell making her let out her anger and -as much as she hated to admit it- fear in a moment that it was crucial that she shouldn't have. Now, bound and gagged against a tree in the company of 20 or so orcs, Varyannë cursed herself, wishing she could have kept her mouth shut, allowing the orcs to believe their captive still unconscious. Her eyes flashed around the clearing looking for any sort of mistake, as were common for orcs, which would allow her to escape, but either this particular group was smarter than most or her eyes had grown untrained in death, for she saw none and was forced to return her eyes to the orcs now closing in on her, all eyes blank for no monster cared. Trained not to question nor feel, orcs would never experience the joys of curiosity nor the anguish of pain. Varyannë had once pitied them, but now, after all she had lost, she hated them. Yet another thing that had changed drastically, though perhaps this was just for too many whom she had loved had suffered at their hands.   
She gazed defiantly at the orc in the lead who was spitting something indecipherable in black speech at her, whipping out a slightly rusted knife and pressing it into her side, the side where...

no. No. NO.

Varyannë stiffened as the knife cut into her skin, a pleased snort coming from one of the orcs surrounding her as they all watched the blood, a deep velvety red the same as her father's banners had seeped onto the shimmering fabric of the Valar.

So much for the dress.

She continued to glare at the orc not allowing herself to provide him with the satisfaction of seeing her squirm, as she knew they loved, however this only angered the orcs, causing another to join the first his unclean knife splitting her chest as he snarled something at her which made her vision go red with anger and she yelled rather unspeakable curses back at him, spitting at his face, and causing an angry roar to rise from his throat as he savagely slashed at her face, drawing blood, and making her hiss in pain, encouraging the orc to continue his work. She jerked her head away from him, his blade slicing not across her face but down her shoulder and down to her hip, slicing all of the carefully knotted bonds holding her in place.

Jumping away from the tree, Varyannë shot him a bloody smile and aimed a well placed kick towards his neck, sending him flying backwards where he lay and didn't get up. Varyannë however did not stay to see the effects of her actions, turning instead and running as quickly as she possibly could, blood dripping into her eyes from a cut on her forehead, slamming her fists, elbows, head, knees, and feet into anything that moved in front of her, fleeing in the first direction that opened itself to her. She could hear snarled curses from the mutated throats behind her, and she felt the fabric of her skirt rip in multiple places as she stretched her legs far beyond the dresses intended span of movement. Her heart pounded in her throat her thankfulness at the clumsy anger of orcs quickly overcome by her joy to still inhabit the body which she had so generously been granted once more, an relief that she would not have to face Námo again only a day after being reborn and explain exactly how she had managed to kill herself off again. Her feet pounded the ground and her skin burned, the salty scent of blood stinging in her nose as she ran, her eyes wide and her skin's throbbing unnoticed as it accumulated more and more cuts upon it from the speed with which Varyannë sprinted away from captivity. She didn't know where she was, or if by running she was bringing herself away from the pain or simply signing herself up for more, but at least she was alive, and no longer chained.

The future is ours so long as we are not imprisoned.

She could have laughed, how very appropriate, her father had been right all along. Here she was, at the beginning of another life fleeing from true captors, not ones who had been, as her uncle had insisted, trying to help. They were all blind. Blind and unworthy.   
Varyannë wiped her face alarmed to see the mix of dirt blood and tears that appeared on her hand, for surely she thought, it could not be that much blood, surely she was okay overall. Her vision was dim and blurry, her feet stumbling, and she slipped on a root, falling down... and down... and down, surely the way to the ground was not this far. She felt herself slam onto the dirt a few times and then, unable to summon the muscles to stop herself, rolled downhill, coming to stop with a splash in a river.

The water was cool, comforting, cleansing, and she felt her body relax. A face swam above her, asking something she couldn't hear, and with that she lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short, I know. Chapter 2 part a?? Oh well. Hoping to have part b out by the end of the week, because no school is beautiful like that.
> 
> On a completely unrelated note: happy birthday to my fantastic sister, love her a ton.
> 
> The next chapter might actually include plot points (fingers crossed)  
> Cheers!


	4. Chapter 3: Glorfindel

Glorfindel had to admit, he loved the peace that came with Imladris. In Gondolin there had always been a tension, a fear, something that was hereditary to living in a city that's way of life was constantly under siege. He had enjoyed the ridiculous songs and poems that had been written about the extravagance with which they had lived, all lies of course, for how on earth would any city trying to keep itself hidden have managed to assemble twenty boars for a single feast honoring midwinter? But in all honesty Glorfindel had found life in Gondolin, while enjoyable, more of a watchful peace than anything that seemed permanent or lasting. Imladris seemed, well, forever, as if it was not going anywhere soon, and there was no reason for fear in the valley. People were able to live freely and in plenty, which made the valley's humble beginnings as a military base under his watch all the more unbelievable.

Night watches, while necessary, nearly always proved to be uneventful, the few sightings of orcs they had few and far between. Still Glorfindel had, from the humble beginnings of the valley, enjoyed night watches, as Arien sank beneath the clouds and there was little fear of attack or ambush. He sighed, looking out from his post and smiling at the sight of lights beginning to prick through the darkness, invisible from outside the valley, but clearly denoting with their fiery flickering the presence of life from his position.

Home.

He hadn't thought he would ever have one again, yet here he was, his heart once again rooted in a settlement that he would give anything to defend. It was quiet, the light winds sweeping off the mountains in just the right direction to bring to his ears the soft sound of singing. If he truly strained himself he could also hear beneath the voices the melody of a harp accompanying them, singing songs likely meant to enlighten those two listeners who had not been there for the events recounted within the chanting.

Just like that Glorfindel's peaceful mood was ruined, a nervous frown crossing his face. Before leaving Valinor once more, one of the very few memories Glorfindel had from that two day period between his rebirth and crossing was of Olórin and Curumo imprinting upon him the reason for his return to Endor;

"The purpose of the Valar is to serve Eru Iluvatar, and part of his commandment is for your return to the east. You must aid where you can and impart the knowledge we have offered you here to those in need" According to the two Maiar, there was always a greater purpose in a rebirth, whether that was retribution, punishment, or completing some task that the Valar deemed only possible through your hands. He had learned in his death not to outwardly doubt their words nor intentions, though inside of himself he was free to question as much as he liked why all powerful beings capable of creating the world which he stood upon would possibly need him to speak their knowledge instead of simply crossing the sea themselves and imparting it.

Instead of easing his confusion over the rebirth of the two firstborn who doubtlessly sat listening to the tales of deeds performed long after they had left the world this only heightened his worry, as the Valar had, seemingly, sent back two of the mightiest in history without any set task nor commandment as to what they were supposed to accomplish before returning to Valinor. He had, of course been overjoyed, astonished, and shocked to see once again the face of his former king and the king's cousin, though neither looked to happy to be back nor to see one another, and Glorfindel couldn't help wondering if perhaps the Valar had made a mistake or if this was some cruel joke to see how long the contentious house of Finwë could last in one another's company before an all consuming battle broke out and blood was spilt.

Bringing Glorfindel back had raised tensions, though why he still wasn't sure he understood. Bringing back two Noldorian Princes both of whom had killed a rather large number of their own over the course of history as well as amassing a virtual army of enemies was surely not the wisest of options. What could possibly have gone so wrong in Middle Earth that this type of action was deemed necessary?

Glorfindel supposed that it was only through luck that one of the Feänorians hadn't appeared as well to complete the triangle of mutual hate. He let himself sink a little lower onto the tree limb upon which he rested, keeping his eyes scanning and ears open, no matter how sure he was they would encounter nothing more dangerous than a rabbit. Glorfindel could deny it all he wanted in his conscious thought, but there was one long gone face he definitely wouldn't have minded seeing again which the rebirth of the two princes had propelled to the forefront of his mind.

After all if King Turukáno of Gondolin had been reborn why couldn't-

His thoughts were shattered by the appearance of Faredir, his already pale face pure white and looking more outwardly worried than Glorfindel had ever seen the unflappable scout before. He nodded once at Glorfindel, observing courtesy of rank before he jumped into speech without invitation.

"Lord Glorfindel, an elleth just fell into the river at the bottom of the valley. She is injured and dying and Istion can't heal her out here with barely any supplies. He will not admit it, but I do not think anyone besides Lord Elrond could heal her at this point. There is something strange about her I can't pinpoint-" but at his words about the mysterious elleth's injuries, Glorfindel jumped to his feet.

"Regardless of who she is it is our job to take her in. Elves do not kill elves, and as such to allow her to die, no matter her identity would be folly. I am sure Lord Elrond will wish to know of this development. Would yourself and Istion need help carrying her back to the house without increasing her risk of death?" Faredir shook his head quickly,

"I do not believe so my lord, she is... rather thin, even for an elf." Glorfindel's mouth thinned, and he motioned for the scout to return to her companion.

"I will meet you two in the healing wing, and I will have three replacements sent out." Faredir hesitated, prompting Glorfindel to shoot an exasperated glance at his subordinate,

"What is it, I thought you said she was dying?" The scout ducked his head,

"Apologies my lord, three replacements?" Glorfindel snorted and shook his head,

"You honestly expect me not to be detained for questioning?" He asked incredulously, and Faredir nodded once in understanding before disappearing back down the tree.

Glorfindel spared a second to watch him leave and to collect his mind before leaping out of the tree and running off in the opposite direction Faredir had gone, his feet barely touching the ground as he ran, hoping that perhaps if he traveled quickly enough his mind would not have time to think, and in not thinking, not hoping.

*****

He paused, barely exerted by his sprint, straightened his armor, and walked into the hall of fire, attempting, and failing to be inconspicuous. The metal reflected the soft warm light of the fires, seeming to absorb it and beam it outwards from his figure again at ten times its original strength. Needless to say, he immediately drew eyes. He shot them what he hoped were reassuring and cheerful smiles despite the strange cacophony of emotions inside of him, none of which he could pick out individually, but all of which added up to a mess of noise pervading his mind and halting all conscious thought.

Coming to a stop on front of Lord Elrond and the two reborn princes, Glorfindel stopped, unsure for once who to address first and in which order their authority prevaded. Finally settling on a shallow bow to each of the three, he then turned his attention to the current lord of the house, locking his eyes with Elrond's and forcing the chaos of sound within his mind to quiet for a moment.

"Lord Elrond, my scouts report a drying elleth falling into the valley tonight with grievous injuries. We, of course had a medic on sight, but they believe their practices and materials inadequate for the job." He paused, waiting for a reaction, feeling the piercing eyes of his old companions upon him, Elrond's inscrutable face revealing nothing of his thoughts not emotions, even to one who had been around the lord as long as Glorfindel had,

"I assume you advised them to bring her to my halls." He said finally, and Glorfindel nodded,

"Seeing as they didn't believe they could heal her, it seemed the best course of action." Elrond stood, and motioned for Glorfindel to follow him, the two elven princes standing without invitation and accompanying them as well.

"Good. have you seen her yourself, or did you run back here to tell me without waiting to assess the situation?" Even after three and a half ages of being alive, having experienced death, rebirth, and seen the two trees and the rising of the sun and moon, somehow Elrond, desperately inferior to Glorfindel in years, still managed to make him feel like a chastized child. He opened his mouth, but was saved from any response by the golden haired prince who so long ago had founded a city in the banks of a river.

"Believe what you might, I for one believe that Laurefindil did the right thing." Findaráto said, his Sindarin, despite the millennia of practice speaking the language, heavily accented. Glorfindel remembered the first few centuries after his return being mainly an attempt to master the language, a painful and slightly embarrassing process which even now still left him with a few completely unknown words, for which he would simply revert back to Quenya and hope than someone still understood him. Over the years there had been fewer and fewer who did, until only he and the Lady of the Wood were the only ones left who had once used it for daily speech.

Still, it was welcome support, and from a mouth which there could be no debate, making Glorfindel all the more glad for his input. At a bravely raised eyebrow from Elrond, who Glorfindel had realized over the years took it as a duty to question everyone and everything, a habit hammered into him presumably by his foster fathers, though if Glorfindel had to guess he would also suppose that being a twin had something to do with it as well. Findaráto however took it much better in stride than others might have, namely the dark-haired ellon Glorfindel had once called his king now standing beside his cousin silent and assessing.

"It is as you told us, we should save as many lives as we can to make up for the multitude of lives we cannot. No matter who she is or how she came to be in the condition she is in, we should do our best to return her to full health." At this the silent Turukáno finally spoke up, a snort escaping his throat, and he responded to his cousin,

"And that is precisely why you died. You opened your heart to a pleading second born who needed your help to accomplish the impossible and died attempting to save him." Turukáno did not even bother attempting to speak Sindarin, and Glorfindel suspected that the next several hundred years of his former king's life, Eru willing, Turukáno would find himself going through the same process Glorfindel had been forced through. Findaráto shot him a nasty look and replied hotly, now abandoning Sindarin as well,

"As if you did not fall victim to the same folly. You knew better than to trust the descendants of Fëanáro, the same traitorous fiends that abandoned us to the ice. I did attempt to warn you not to allow her into your 'hidden city' but you wouldn't listen." At this both Glorfindel and Turukáno turned on the blonde prince, both opening their mouths to verbally assault him, but Elrond quickly intervened, his quenya, learned through eavesdropping upon his foster fathers as he had once told Glorfindel, cutting cooly between the flared hot anger of the three elves behind him.

"You offer good advice Lord Findaráto, and are correct. It should not matter who she is, and it is indeed better to have a living though injured elf than a dead one." The blonde prince nodded, a mocking smile flitting across his face as he made eye contact with his cousin, prompting Turukáno to simply scowl and clench his arms against his sides. Vaguely Glorfindel found himself wondering what had happened to turn his former king away from the only elf who he had seemed to be able to find no wrong with, what major event had transpired to break the bond that had once existed between them, for surely nothing but a momentous disagreement could have done the trick.

The doors to the hall of healing were pushed open as they approached, Faredir and Istion exiting the hall and pausing in surprise as they saw the assortment of the mighty before them. Bowing the two of them, quickly moved aside, allowing the three lords through into the hall. Glorfindel paused outside of the door, calling over the two scouts as his brow furrowed with worry,

"She was quite light, we had no trouble getting her up to the house." Faredir reported, Glorfindel looked down at his bloodstained hands and shirt and motioning towards them said quickly,

"You two might want to go clean up, you look as if you just took part in battle. It was of course an exaggeration, but the two scouts nodded and bowed just as Turukáno's voice erupted angrily,

"I don't care how injured she is that beast doesn't deserve healing any more than Morgoth himself!" Glorfindel winced, and the two scouts shot terrified glances in the direction of the three lords, two of whom now looked ready to kill the next thing that moved within their sight.

"You are dismissed for the night." Glorfindel murmured to the two, and then hurried anxiously over to the three lords. Elrond had a light hand on Turukáno's shoulder, his face set and firm, the same as the look Glorfindel remembered the night he had gone to free his wife, or the night that they had ridden into battle against Sauron. It didn't matter what the ancient princes said or did now, he thought wryly, there was nothing and no one short of Eru Iluvatar who could change his mind while he wore this expression.

"Send her out of the valley. Let whoever justly did this to her enjoy the final results of their work. She deserves to die a thousand times over for what she and her family did." Findaráto said, his voice icy cold with anger, coming to his cousin's aid in a second in the face of perceived injustice. 

Curious and more than a little scared, Glorfindel peered between them, and down towards the bed. His face, body, mind, heart, and soul froze at the sight upon the bed, his head reeling and filled with a thousand memories, fears, wishes, and dreams that never came true.

Pale skin, curls of dark hair, quiet freckles which no one knew about unless they got within ten centimeters of her face, every tiny detail was a memory, every second of watching her a pain filled joy, and yet it was - not her he was seeing. The scars, the tight lips, the unspoken pain, it was all gone, erased as though she had been sent back in a body from ages before suffering. Yes, blood blossomed across her chest and sides, yes her dress was soiled and brown, yes there were bruises dotting the skin of her upper body, but she was... he wasn't sure how to describe it, pure, new, unbroken. He knew that when she opened her eyes he would see the lovely chocolate brown that had set her apart from the rest of the Noldor, the warm colour in which all of the sadness and regret was stored, the feature that had made her an anomaly, like her brothers with their red hair. He wasn't sure if he was overjoyed or incensed by her return and he wasn't sure he cared to decide. Dimly he heard Elrond exclaim,

"Is this how easily the heroes of the past go back on their word? It doesn't matter her identity, I will heal her all the same." Glorfindel drew himself slowly back to the present just in time to see Turukáno's face, disgusted and seething in not having his way, his lips curling around the words,

"She is a kinslayer." Elrond glared unrelenting at the former king,

"And I would be no better if I did not allow her a chance at life. Like yourselves, the Valar sent her back for a reason, and from personal experience I truly believe that trust can be a valuable thing, and that even the worst can prove to be kind and worthy of forgiveness." He said coldly,

"I have no authority to order either of you anywhere, however I would suggest that if you cannot stop yourselves from committing a fourth kinslaying within my halls, you leave them for the time being." Turning angrily on his heel, Turukáno stalked out of the room, quickly followed by his cousin after Findaráto threw a few more choice words at the figure lying unconcious on the cot. Elrond let out a sigh and moved to grab a cloth and a bottle full of a clear liquid that smelled vaguely acidic. Glorfindel, his eyes still pinned on the elleth, his mind reeling in endless circles of joy and rage, sat himself down, watching as Elrond cleaned, then cauterized, then stitched the wounds with almost unnatural speed and precision, his hands doing the work while his mind was lost in another place and time. On another day, in another place and time, Glorfindel might have known of who and what Elrond was lost in memories, but on this night, he did not mind the mystery of his lord's thoughts, his mind was bent upon another mystery; How? and when? and why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is... long. Over 3000 words and 5 pages in google docs, who am I? (honestly, I've got no idea anymore, it's getting scary)
> 
> Okay, names, and meanings, and important stuff like that (which I totally should have started with)
> 
> Turukáno-Turgon-Turvo
> 
> Findaráto-Finrod-Findo
> 
> Laurefindil-Glorfindel
> 
> Faredir means male hunter, it is of Sindarin origin, and I credit it to FantasyNameGenerator (this website is an actual life saver)
> 
> Istion means son of knowledge/lore, it is also of Sindarin origin, again credit to FantasyNameGenerator


	5. Chapter 4: Turukáno

Turukáno had, since childhood, fleed to libraries to hide within books when faced with situations his mind couldn't handle all at once. There had been a multitude of such occasions over his life, one of the first rooms instated for use in his construction of Gondolin the hall filled from floor to twenty four foot high ceiling with books. Now however, he found himself strangely at a loss for what to do. The -in comparison- paltry collection of Imladris was filled with books he had never heard the titles of and was terrified of reading, scared of who or what they might include and explain to him, for surely there was a virtual avalanche of information amassed from after his death until the present moment, two ages he was told.

He sat with a book of poetry in his hands, passing it back and forth indecisively before finally giving up and happy to escape from the confines of his mind, wherein a whirlpool of anger and hatred swirled, threatening to pull him down into days of darkness should he submit to it. He turned his eyes downward, and began to read, allowing the words to pull him away from his tumultuous emotions and disembody him, a visitor within the mind of another.

When all we value and love is lost

When hope has gone for good

We find a new unbroken cost

for all we misunderstood

each death each pain each price for life

Is thrown back in our face

We find there still is untold strife

Something gone we can't replace

it keeps us there within its clutch

Gasping still for breath

The pain we know is far too much

in our dance with death

Forever is of uncounted length

To long for life to live

And still we pray: courage and strength

As time slips through it's sieve

The ticking clock as moments pass

can never be undone

Sand slipping through an hourglass

Each second truly gone

When all we valued and loved was lost

And life was spent for good

Regret blue-tinted by the frost

was shared in brotherhood

Sent back home across the seas

To live forevermore

In loss in pain in whispered pleas

For escape from what was before

Turukáno slid his head into his hands and let out a long sigh, attempting to blink away the completely inexplicable liquid rising behind his eyes. It was too true, he finally allowed himself to think, too close to the mark for comfort. It still hurt, the excitement of leaving, the anticipation of what they would find on the other shore, the freedom they had hoped to gain, and all for what? Death and agony. Lives lost, a never ending stream of problems, and rifts created between those who had used to be as close as brothers. He had tried to allow the world to move as it had in Valinor, and his reward had been betrayal and death.

How fitting that now he was back, no purpose given, and surrounded by people he had never heard of with no familiar faces besides those whom he had thought to have escaped at last forever. He slammed the books shut, whirlpool quieted and replaced with sadness, the anger still lurking but contented to wait while Turukáno allowed himself for a moment to mourn all they had lost, and all they would continue to lose.

There was no room left inside of him for forgiveness, and as many times as he had forgiven and been punished for it in the past, Turukáno didn't think that he had any reason left that he could possibly find to forgive his cousins for betraying, hurting, and abandoning him. He swore to himself that until the day they apologized, he would find ways of making them regret their actions.

Sun filtered through the opened windows of the library, exposing the dust on the air as it's rays traveled through the air. It's golden light glowed in the otherwise dim room, far outshining the dullness around it. For a moment Turukáno simply sat and watched it, the warm light still barely comparable to the long vanished brilliance of Laurelin. He had imagined many times over a world in which they had never left home, a world where he might never had had to leave his mother, a world where friendships were still fast and strong between family, and though tensions rose and fell, for the most part, there was happiness. For a long time Turukáno had allowed himself the delusion that his life had once been just that, happy, yet perhaps only in death had he realized the depth of the anger that had run between his father and his uncle, the amount it had poisoned every interaction between their family, and how truely, there had never been happiness.

It was always a temporary solution. Perhaps they were meant to have returned to Endor, he thought, perhaps it was all in the designs of Illuvatar that they would destroy and exterminate themselves in the hope of regaining three small jewels. Perhaps they were meant to have discovered true peace and happiness, true freedom, and then to leave it to the next generation to have while once again they took the hard route of exploration, this time in death.

The sun was tinted pinkish orange now, the colour of the inside of one of the shells Finno had brought him from Alquelondë so long ago. Turukáno had treasured those shells, kept each of them on a shelf in his room and brought them across the sea with him, a last token of the joy of childhood. Like that childhood, like Finno, like Elenwë, like everyone Turukáno had loved, they were gone, lost to the evil that had wormed its way into his peace, his home, his attempts to recreate the happiness that had never been.

How he wished to see them all again, how he had hoped that in death he would, but the Valar were cruel, and death was the one path you traveled truly alone. Surrounded he had been with others, yet alone as well, unable to identify nor communicate with any. Turukáno would have given his current life a thousand times over if only to see any of their faces again, his Atar, his Amil, his brothers, his sisters, his grandfather and grandmother, his wife, his daughter, he would have traded anything in the world for just a glimpse, one moment to know that they were out there somewhere, waiting to see him as he was for them.

Turukáno wiped a tear from his cheek as footsteps entered the library, and turned to see Findaráto standing stiffly in the doorway, a bitter scowl on his face. How long he had been standing there, watching Turukáno wrestle bitterly with his emotions, he didn't know, but clearly it had been long enough as his cousin opened his mouth and spat out,

"She's awake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's that... short, and hopefully sweet (don't mind that it's just me crying over there not being enough hours in a day for sleep and school and dance and...). I haven't had much time but we're still attempting to keep ourselves from drowning here. 
> 
> I wrote the poem, credits to me, hope y'all liked it.


	6. Chapter 5: Varyannë

The first thing Varyannë realized upon waking up was that she was not dead.

She was cold, wet, and had pain arcing through her chest, but she was not dead. She counted this as an improvement. Something shifted beside her, warm hands pressing into her arm with something sharp that made her flinch, and for a moment in the peaceful quiet of a soft bed she was sure it would be her mother, her face worried, her mouth opening to emit a tirade against Varyannë's reckless determination to find trouble,

You could have killed yourself Varya! What were you thinking? Why on earth would you test how thin a branch could hold your weight? She had heard it all a thousand times in the past, over and over, and each time her answer, innocent and wrong was,

But no one dies in Valinor Amil.

She had not seen her mother for longer than she cared to think about, and she was not in Valinor anymore. Varyannë slowly twisted her head to see where she was, her eyes alighting on a male elf standing above her left arm where the pain was still stinging, his face stern and concentrated. It was funny, Varyannë thought, how her mind immediately attempted to connect his face to others she had known, lingered on his pursed lips, so similar to the expression Nelyo made when he was upset, and on his loose hair, unbound the way Kano had liked his, stating stubbornly that braiding took too much time when he could be doing something useful. Varyannë stopped herself, a frown crossing her face as a pang went through her heart at the memories.

It is all gone. She reminded herself,

There is no use pining after what has been taken away. Moving her eyes away from his face and down to the arm which he was stitching, Varyannë paused for a moment to admire his work, precise and quick with not a second of hesitation, the pain from his ministrations nothing in comparison to even the work of the most skilled healers she had been in contact with. His eyes flicked to her face, showing not even the slightest hint of surprise that she was conscious, and he murmured something in Sindarin, a language Varyannë had never bothered formally learning besides a few life-saving phrases, as Turukáno had always counted himself above Thingol and his "ludacris proclamations". In response to her obvious lack of comprehension, he switched to shaky, accented, though mostly understandable Quenya,

"Stay still." He repeated, and Varyannë scoffed; as if she had not been subjected to this work a thousand times over in her past. Closing her eyes for a moment Varyannë remembered a time when she would have opened her mouth to tell the stranger exactly that, not caring a bit for the etiquette or decorum with which her eldest brother was so obsessed. Slowly over the years this side of her had been squashed, replaced by the belief that the less you said the less others knew and could use against you.

I have been pretending to be someone else for so long I don't know who I am anymore. Perhaps, if they had never left home, that side of her never would have disappeared. Varyannë supposed she would never know. How long had it been since she had been allowed to act with no fear for the consequences that evil would throw upon her shoulders? She couldn't remember.

The healer had paused, looking at her with dark eyes full of curiosity, and Varyannë shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze, wishing he would return to his work. There was something intense about his gaze, a spark somewhere deep in his eyes that reminded her of the way her father had used to look at her when she had done something wrong, a deep note of knowledge that Varyannë would prefer he not possess.

"I believe it might interest you, Aistel to know that your cousins Turgon and Finrod are within this valley also." The healer said quietly, his gaze still fixed upon hers, and Varyannë had to fight to keep her face impassive, to not reveal the sudden falter of the beat deep within her chest, at hearing that name, the name that had belonged to a killer,

"Really." She responded in what she hoped was a disinterested voice, still fighting to keep the torrent emotion off her face, a practice that she had never perfected to the razor-sharp talent her brother Moryo had possessed.

"Perhaps you would explain to me why they seemed so... distressed by your presence." It was not a question, Varyannë thought with a smirk, though why he needed one when there were doubtlessly books written about her "heartless betrayal" and "disgusting treachery". With a cynical smile, she pushed herself gingerly into a sitting position with the uninjured arm, and said,

"I feel no obligation to explain myself to you until you tell me who you are and where we are." She responded and he raised a single eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"You are in Imladris and I am Elrond, the lord of this house." He responded, and she allowed herself one nod of recognition before pasting her face and body back into their mold of disinterest.

"Very well then, Lord Elrond of Imladris, If at this moment because of my actions and presence in your home, everyone within this valley was killed by servants of evil and you were captured last of all and forced to watch as everyone you loved and cared for and protected died, how long would it take you to forgive me?" She tilted her head slightly to the side, carefully assessing his face, looking for even the slightest twitch of muscle to reveal his reaction to her, but there was nothing. Varyannë scowled.

"You would never-"

"If you had read any book or first-hand account you would know that I did." He paused, not refuting her, but a thin smile was stretched across his lips, and to her poorly concealed shock he responded,

"You didn't." Varyannë was plainly confused, her eyebrows contracted to the point where they were almost touching, an expression that once had been the source of undisguisable humor from more than one of her brothers.

"I might ask how and from what source you gained knowledge that one of the hated Feänorians is innocent." She replied bitterly, attempting and failing to regain her composure. The healer -Lord- Elrond shook his head slightly, and turned away, picking something papery off the table behind him. Offering it to her he said,

"When you arrived, I asked for this to be brought out. I have found from reading others accounts of your brothers they differ with the reality. Given I happen to think that the truth is important, I thought it might do us both good to see it again. Looking down curiously at the folded parchment in her hands, Varyannë unfolded it and was surprised to see her own handwriting on the paper.

Dearest Maitimo,

I hope this letter finds you well and prosperous, as much as one can be during times of war. Much has happened since our last correspondence that I shall not have the opportunity to tell you of, for I fear unless I keep my words brief, you shan't ever receive this letter. We found yourselves at dawn on this day surrounded by Morgoth's forces, and are under attack though how I do not know for Turukáno promised his city was hidden from all eyes. I am afraid, Maitimo, of what my future holds for any who stay to defend our homes against Morgoth shall surely face death. We are much outnumbered and they have the equipment to break our walls in minutes. Somehow I doubt this was a spontaneous attack and suspect a spy within our own. Still, I pray to whoever might still hold us in some pity for some last chance to see you again. I miss you Maitimo, more than you know.

Should refugees from our encampment seek sanctuary behind your walls, I should hope you will allow them to remain as one last favor to me, and I would vouch for all of their worthiness at the price of my own life. Please send my love to Macalaurë, Curufinwë, Tyelkormo, Telufinwë, and Carnistir, my heart remains with all of you no matter the outcome of this battle. They have begun their attack, I will remain. Do not send reinforcements, I would hate for you to waste lives on a futile cause. I am scared Nelyo, I don't want to die.

Varyannë stared in shock at the sheet of paper, unaware of the tears sliding down her cheeks. The writing, begun in hesitant Sindarin had quickly dissolved into frantic and informal Quenya, her hand shaking and blotting the letters nearly into oblivion at the very end and long dried tears smeared the letters. It was unsigned, but Varyannë did not need a signature to tell who had written the letter and when and why. She remembered writing it as if it had happened the day before. She remembered the tears and the terror that had run ice cold through her veins, and when she finally spoke it was only to whisper,

"Where did you get this?" Elrond looked at her as if analyzing whether or not she could take it, and seeming to come to the conclusion that she could, he replied,

"From my father's bedroom. I imagine that he was quite angry when he discovered it's absence. It was with this." His voice was just as quiet of hers, heavy with memory as he passed her a small framed portrait, a rough sketch on folded yellowing paper of a smiling elleth with twinkling eyes and freckles. In the corner of the portrait were tiny letters spelling out Varya. She frowned at the elven lord, trying to divine where he possibly could have obtained a portrait that she thought had been left in Valinor, and a letter that only should have been known to exist by the elf it was addressed to.

"Who was your father?" She asked, her voice guarded, curiosity taking over where she might have been better off not knowing,

"I was raised, though not sired, by your brothers, Maedhros and Maglor." He paused, letting out a sigh, and then continued,

"I must admit, it was rather a shock for me when you appeared within our valley. I had expected never to see a soul who knew them in a good light again." Varyannë's body was numb, her senses refusing to accept what she was hearing,

"Does that mean they are gone then? All of them?" She murmured, refusing to accept that her intuition had been true until he confirmed it for her, and she let out a long breath when he nodded,

"Yes, they are." Elrond's eyes were downcast, staring hard at a spot on the sheet of Varyannë's bed, and suddenly all she could think of was how very young the elven lord looked, young and vulnerable, the way she had felt as she wrote that letter to her eldest brother. Unsure of how to comfort him, she reached out a hand and awkwardly patted his shoulder, hoping this would help.

"I remember when I was young, Mai- Maedhros used to be the one who we would go to for tears." She paused, her eyes unfocused as she drifted into memories,

"It wouldn't matter how small the issues or how terrible the timing, he would always be there with open arms and wide smiles, willing to do whatever to took to make us happy again. He was the one, not my Atar who kept our family together, who attempted and sometimes succeeded at mediating our arguments, who kept us from beginning wars in a land of everlasting peace. He made us a united front when it was the most necessary, and gave us someone to come to when Atar was angry and Amil to busy as often happened. It was Maedhros and Maca -Maglor who we went to with nightmares, a song or a story always waiting, and not a word of complaint. I know I am not the only one who followed them with almost blind loyalty for the love they gave me in return." She locked her eyes with his, searching somewhere in their depths and smiled slightly,

"I can see them both within you." She finished. He offered her a sad smile, and replied,

"I try to be-" but he was cut off by a bang as the door flew open that led out of the healing hall, and two elves were framed inside of it, both of whom wore incensed expressions. For a moment there was complete silence as the three elves regarded one another, and then all at once, they began speaking, shouting, and reaching for nonexistent weaponry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to do my best to keep this short: Aistel is Sindarin, it means Little Star or Daughter of Stars. 
> 
> my pianist in ballet yesterday started class by playing Into The West, and you know I was trying not to cry. Also, he was REALLY intense about all of his music, so that was a slightly scary class, I wasn't sure I was going to make it out alive or with the piano intact.


	7. Chapter 6: Findaráto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was watching LOTR over the weekend, and shout out to Sauron for wearing the one ring on his pointer finger like, that is a CHOICE. Is it the right one? I don't even know at this point. All I know is that when I am only wearing one ring (rarely occurs, it's usually somewhere in the 3-5 range) it NEVER goes on my pointer finger, it goes on my middle finger so I can flip people off when they are like "oh can I see your ring?"

It had been nearly two weeks since Findekáno had miraculously returned, his death rights rescinded and Uncle Nolofinwë's face seen miraculously once again with an expression bordering on hope rather than drowned in despair. It had been nearly two weeks in which Findaráto had refused to speak at all to Findekáno, he and many others, due to the pure and simple fact that Russandol, the subject of Findaráto's recent expedition, had not deserved to be rescued. None of THEM did.

Perhaps out of revenge, perhaps out of pity, Findaráto's uncle had not sent word to the Feanorians of Russandol's rescue until just a few hours ago, fearing -or hoping- that his nephew would not survive. Findaráto stood now by their roughly hewn gates, hurriedly made and erected to form a semblance of something like home, a false façade that could all too easily be stripped away and their desperation revealed. He watched them, seven horses moving more quickly than he thought possible towards the camp, and wondered what else he could have expected. It was only natural, he supposed, that they would all wish to see their brother again, that they would still care, yet somewhere in all of the blood and betrayal and hate, Findaráto thought the Feanorians had shed their hearts and souls. It was, he believed, the only excuse which could possibly explain the actions they had taken, and to see that maybe this was not the case, that maybe they still cared and loved as they always had made his body prickle with anger. 

Monsters. That was what they were, killers and monsters. How could they love yet doom their family? How could they care and kill without a second thought?

The horses were nearly level to the gate now, and Findaráto had to force his expression into a neutral position, though why he cared so much about checking his anger, he couldn't have said. Out of everyone in the wide expanse of Arda, these seven and Morgoth himself were the ones who most deserved to feel Findaráto's anger, the ones who would someday regret sparking it.

Jumping from his horse before it had fully stopped, Macalaurë's wild, haunted eyes pinned themselves upon Findaráto, already running before his feet had touched the ground, the others not wasting a second in following suit. They all looked terrified, angry, and somehow unelven as they made their way towards him, something smouldering just beyond his sight within their eyes that reminded him more of the creatures from the nightmares of his younger days than the cousins with which he shared fond memories. They moved as a pack, a group, a unified front towards him. In a different time, in a different situation, Findaráto might have found it funny, the children of Feanor working together? Agreed universally over something? Who or what had done this?

But at this moment he knew, and it was not funny. The near death of their eldest brother, their protector, their leader, at the hands of the one who had sent them charging across the sea without a backward glance, that was what had done this. Findaráto hated himself for understanding, for sympathizing with the nightmares they had all become, but he did. He would look, feel, act, be the same way if anyone had dared to touch any one of his siblings, and so it was with an ounce of the immense hatred he felt building up within his gut that he pointed them towards the humble hut in which Russandol lay, and then followed in their wake, the dust they had kicked up behind them settling on top of him.

The interior of the hut was silent, not a sound upon the air beside the dripping of a leak, which even when it was not rainy seemed desperate to annoy them all. Vaguely, Findaráto could remember Findekáno panicking about the leak, worried that it would somehow hurt Russandol's healing process, even when he knew there was no way to fix it with their resources or lack thereof. Now, the seven siblings huddled around Russandol's bed, shocked into silence and faces betraying rage equal to that which Findaráto felt inside of him, the leak seemed a relief from the silent pressure of emotion building in the room. As he had been since his return, Russandol's eyes were closed, his mouth downturned, the scars and unhealed gashes all over him painfully stretching with every shallow shaking breath he took, yet still, somehow, clinging on to life. He looked up from Russandol's face and was surprised to see Varyannë openly crying, her liquid brown eyes an anomaly he had found strange from the start. The tears streamed one by one down her face, and she quietly chanted,

"Nelyo, Nelyo, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Perhaps feeling his eyes upon her, or possibly realizing that she had spoken aloud, rather than in the depths of her mind where they had all been screaming in pain since the first step from Valinor, she glanced upwards, and for a moment he was frozen in place by the power of her eyes, gleaming golden in light flickering in from the window, and he could see the depths of her anguish, her self hatred, the realization that she could have been the one to save him after all, and that she would never, not even after the remaking of Arda, forgive herself.

At that moment Findaráto understood, and then that moment passed, her face hardened back into an expression of mild anger and distaste he recognised, and he felt within him again, the torrent of anger towards her, her brothers, her father, Morgoth, the Valar, and even Eru Iluvatar himself crash once again within his chest, a wild ocean waiting to be unleashed, waiting for just the slightest push to explode into the world.

*****

Findaráto blinked in surprise, the first motion he had made in a few seconds. His eyes broke contact with Varyannë's, and the room exploded into noise as all at once the three began to speak, throwing insults, compliments, attempted hugs, and fists simultaneously as if unsure how to feel.

Findaráto had known, not a minute before, exactly how he felt about her return, about Turvo's return, about his own return; it was all a ridiculously mean joke, meant to give him pain and death again, yet now all of a sudden, he was not sure.

It was her eyes, something in her eyes that had made him hesitate, made him remember that despite everything she still felt. He shook himself off, Feanorians didn't feel. They didn't care, they didn't love, and they never would. He glared at her and heard himself shouting, unsure of what he was saying or why he was saying it, besides the obvious facts that they both deserved to be subjected to worse than insults. Turvo, the Turvo he had once loved and trusted, had abandoned him and Varyannë, well, he had never seen her in any wonderful light.

Once he might have pretended to be kind, he would have given them polite smiles and not allowed them to see how much it hurt. He would have been who they expected him to be, everlastingly patient, Cousin Findaráto who you could punch into the ground and he would jump back up with a smile and a warm hug.

He had tried so hard not to allow Beleriand to change him.

He had failed so badly in not changing. But perhaps Findaráto wasn't only he who had changed and lived to hate the changes he now couldn't reverse. He heard someone attempting to quiet him, though he was unsure of who it was, using no softened terms to express his disinterest in "the childish bickerings of the dead." He felt himself unconsciously close his mouth, halt the tirade of insults from exploding out of his long collected store. When Findaráto looked up, the room was silent, though when he looked into the eyes of his cousins they were full to bursting with the weight of all that had not yet been said, and she was still staring at him, her eyes glowing with the sunlight filtering through them, a deep and radiant gold. But it was no longer beautiful, as he had once thought it. It was no longer an uplifting reminder that she could feel emotion as acutely as he could, it was a threat, a wordless reminder that every crime she had committed she had committed with the same span of emotion as he had, that monsters could be made from anyone.

Staring back at her, he heard, echoing as if in a large room, a booming voice he had thought to never hear again, commanding, condemning, proclaiming the all-encompassing anguish he had denied to be true until it was too late.

Aid the halfling

Reclaim the Silmaril

Destroy the Admirable

Only then shall you return

Silence fell suddenly, the room becoming deathly silent, and Findaráto cursed avidly. He hated being doomed.


	8. Chapter 7: Bilbo

Rivendell, Bilbo had decided, was beautiful. Every archway and hall was meticulously detailed, each flagstone on the floor beneath him a work of art. He had never seen a place so devoted to being magnificent and he found he liked it rather much. The long corridor he found himself walking through now held ancient artifacts and works of art, perfectly preserved and displayed with a sense of style that seemed almost second nature across the whole city and its inhabitants.

Stopping before a mural painted upon the wall itself as if the history it displayed was as much a part of this place as the everyday goings on, Bilbo stared open-mouthed at the tiny details in each section of the painting, individual elven faces each showing unique expressions of pure terror in their eyes, clearly locked upon indistinct fiery figures pervading the destruction portrayed in the painting.

So absorbed was he in his inspection of the artwork, Bilbo missed the sounds of quiet footsteps closing in upon him until a smooth elven voice said curiously,

"What are you looking at child?" His deep musical voice heavily accented in a way Bilbo had not heard in others of Rivendell. Affronted, Bilbo tore his gaze from the dark-haired elf closest to the shadowy figures and jumped rather enormously as he found himself gazing at nearly the same face he had just seen within the painting. Piercing blue eyes seemed to pin him down while a curtain of dark hair braided neatly off his face accentuated his sharp unearthly features, so different from the hobbits of the Shire and even the Dwarves of Thorin's company. Shaken, yet still offended, Bilbo responded hotly,

"I am not a child, I am a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins the Hobbit." The elf raised an eyebrow amusedly and replied,

"Alright then, Bilbo Baggins the Hobbit, what has you so entranced you seemed almost sucked into the very image itself?" Bilbo smiled and motioned towards the mural, saying,

"The amount of detail in this image, you would think the painter had been there himself, though that must be impossible. A battle such as this must have taken place in the first or second age if I know anything about history but-" Bilbo cut himself off, noticing the expression on the elf's face. It was mournful, nostalgic, and pained as if he had personally known those in the image, and Bilbo's next words were anxious, worried he might have offended the elf,

"Are you quite alright?" he asked, and the elf shook his head slightly, eyes flickering away from the painting and meeting Bilbo's wherein he could see a deep well of sorrow and memory. It seemed to the hobbit that if he looked long enough he might be swallowed by the depth of his eyes,

"I believe the painter might have been, to achieve that level of accuracy. This is the fall of Gondolin if I am not mistaken, and I shouldn't be, I was there." Bilbo stared in awe at the dark-haired elf towering above him, and when he next spoke he could feel himself stumbling slightly over his words, his mind suddenly connecting the dark-haired elf in the image to the one standing beside him,

"Y-You were there?" He asked incredulously, and pointed shakily at the elf in the picture,

"Is this you?" A bitter smile twisted the elf's face and he did not even need to glance at the image to respond in the affirmative. Bilbo's mouth fell open, eyes widening as he reassessed the elf standing beside him,

"But Gondolin fell in the first age! That would make you..." He trailed off attempting and failing to do the math of how old the elf beside him must be, and a laugh echoed down the hallway as another elf joined them, this one recognizable to Bilbo as Lord Elrond,

"Older than he ever hoped to be I am sure. However, I must insist that the two of you take a short break to join us for dinner, or I fear you shall not be eating until tomorrow." This prompted a fearful look from the hobbit and he quickly bobbed his head in a short bow and rushed off to find his companions. However, before he was out of earshot, he heard the elf ask Lord Elrond in a curiously open voice,

"What in Arda is a hobbit?"

*****

Bilbo had never in his life attended as strange a dinner as the one he found himself a party to at that moment. Twelve dwarves huddled around two low tables in the center of an elven kingdom, attempting to reconcile themselves to the idea that elves did not eat meat with their dinners.

At the raised table where Lord Elrond sat, Bilbo recognized the elf whom he now knew to be Turgon, King of Gondolin. This fact had sorely embarrassed Bilbo who could only imagine how it must have felt for the king to be told of his own city by a hobbit.

Beside Turgon sat Thorin, throwing distrustful glances at the elf. Gandalf, sitting on the other side of Lord Elrond was sending the dwarf stern glances while either oblivious to or deftly ignoring the glare of hatred sent his way by a slight dark-haired female elf across from him who was clearly restraining herself from hurling either fists or words at the wizard.

It bemused him, the grudging respect with which she and Turgon, as well as a golden-haired elf sitting beside the wizard, had given the wizard when he first entered the room with Lord Elrond, all three pushing themselves to their feet and murmuring something polite sounding in a musical language with the same quality as Turgon's voice before seating themselves again. It was only after this that the female elf had permitted herself to start glaring at the wizard.

Olórin, they called him and spoke to his face with the respect that denoted something near fear, and Bilbo had had to restrain himself from laughing for what could a wandering conjurer possibly give that would earn the fear and respect of a king of the first age?

Bilbo curiously watched the table, ignoring the alternating complaints, jokes, and playful insults being thrown around him, and watching in fascination as Gandalf passed his sword to Lord Elrond and Turgon stiffened in shock, looking accusingly at the wizard,

"That was mine!" he said in shock,

"By Manwë, where did you find it?" The wizard cast him an amused glance responding,

"We found them in a troll hoard, on the Great East Road, shortly before we were ambushed by orcs." This earned him a rather unelven short of amusement from the female before she was silenced by a glare of pure hatred from Turgon.

She quickly stood, tossing him a slightly aggravated look and limped -Bilbo didn't know elves even could limp- to an open harp where she began playing the peaceful music that surrounded them with as stormy an expression as Bilbo had ever seen on an elf in his limited exposure to them. She managed to make herself look threatening even as she gently caressed the strings of the harp, and Bilbo was quite sure at that moment she was not someone he wanted to cross.

Ignoring the interruption as if it was a common occurrence, Elrond turned to Gandalf once more and fixed him with a calculating gaze,

"What were you doing on the Great East Road, Gandalf?" An uneasy silence fell, neither wizard nor dwarf answering, and the three elves remaining at the table cast one another curious looks. As Elrond finally succumbed to their lack of insight, Bilbo sighed, having a feeling that at the most they had only postponed the moment of revelation. However, as the Lord of Rivendell stood and guided his guests to a dimly lit hall open and ready for music to fill it, the matter of their quest was soon far from Bilbo's mind and he was lost deep within the music of the elves.

*****

If asked to recollect later what songs he had heard, Bilbo couldn't have answered. One tune blended into another until finally in a moment of silence he was jerked from his half-asleep state just in time to see the golden-haired elf he had seen at the high table step up behind the enormous harp on a raised platform in the center of the room

"Sing to us of Valinor Lord Finrod!" Someone called, and murmurs of assent spread through the crowd, but the elf-lord shook his head,

"There are no happy songs of the west to be sung over the seas. If a celebration is what you wish for tonight, Valinor is best left unspoken of." Bilbo wrinkled his brow, attempting to divine from the depths of his mind where he recognised the word Valinor from. Perhaps one of the history books he coveted by the dozens back in Hobbiton. However, it seemed the majority of the elves were more than happy for the song to be sad so long as the golden-haired lord sang of it, their requests called out from corners until Finrod shook his head with a laugh and consented, much to the cheers of the onlookers.

His fingers hovered hesitantly over the strings for a moment before he quietly began to play, the mournful notes lingering in the air long after his fingers had moved on, and as his voice joined the harp, Bilbo's eyes locked upon him, unable to look away. The words might have been in an unfamiliar language Bilbo had no doubt even some of the elves didn't understand, yet there was such power behind his strong voice, the anguish in his throat all too real to look away, and when the last notes of the song finally faded away, Bilbo found his eyes damp with the power of the sadness just conveyed.

Looking around himself, he was surprised to find Lord Elrond with his head in one hand, Turgon attempting to stifle the tears slowly tracing their way done his cheeks, and the finger himself, Finrod's face shiny with the tears he himself had shed. As he stood and walked away, pure silence pervading the room, he sat once again beside Lord Elrond, and Bilbo noticed again the small female elf as she stood and walked briskly out of the room. Any who had not seen her face might have guessed her angry or simply noncommittal on the piece, yet as she brushed by Bilbo, he caught a glimpse of her face, and upon it was written such a profound combination of fury, agony, and misery that Bilbo was afraid she might simply collapse with the weight of it.

Not soon after he himself left the hall, seeking the accommodations Lord Elrond had seen fit to provide them all with. Late that night, however, instead of sleeping as the snores of his companions provided a strange sort of background noise, Bilbo could still hear the echoes of Finrod's despairing voice in the back of his mind and found himself quite happy that he had not understood the lyrics. It was quite enough to feel the sadness without understanding its cause as well. Casting a glance around him at the blissfully snoring dwarves, Bilbo remembered suddenly hat first night in Hobbiton and the song the dwarves hand sung. Its melancholy tune had held the same note as the elven song had, and for a moment Bilbo wondered if perhaps the dwarves were not the only ones to have lost their homes.

But that's silly. Bilbo reminded himself, Elves never lose battles, even to dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do actually have a song in mind for what Finrod was singing, it's one I wrote a while ago about the events surrounding the darkening of Valinor. Super sad, kind of haunting toon, it worked well. I can post it for reference if people want, but when I tried to actually write it in it sounded choppy, and then I was like, well it would probably be in Quenya anyways and what hobbit speaks Quenya?
> 
> I'm now caught up with my wattpad account and should be updating both sites at the same time. Expect a chapter in the once per one two two weeks range, that's my goal.


	9. Chapter 8: Turukáno

Imladris, full of winding passageways and open balconies that more often than not led to nothing at all or to something so fantastic it was hours later that you tore yourself away only to find the sun gone from the sky and a dinner bell ringing, was the ideal place to lose oneself and all sense of time space and memory. For a time Turukáno had wondered if once Tirion had been the same way, sinking into hours of lonely contemplation and questions that more often than not would lead to tears and curses.  
The maze-like qualities of the valley however gave him an excuse as to why the thought of anything besides his exploration might have escaped him, the multitude of historical documents and wonders of the place, including, for a reason he couldn’t entirely understand and which bemused him to a great extent, a strand of gold from his elder brother’s braids. How that had managed to find its way into Imladris, Turukáno wasn’t sure he wanted to no, as even he had never managed to acquire one of his brother’s beloved decorations.  
“They work much better with your hair,” Russandol had said with a barking laugh, the teasing sparkle in his eyes igniting as Findekáno had simply reached out with a sniff and plucked the golden ribbons from his hands  
“If you say so.” He had said with mock sincerity and proceeded to braid them into his own hair. Turukáno had watched in amusement from Findaráto’s side, both of them quite bemused by their comrades foolishness, but Turukáno had never seen his brother without the ribbons after that, proudly showing off the acquired accessories with an air of confidence Turukáno had been surprised to see.  
Shaking his head slightly, Turukáno pulled himself back to the present, and attempted to refocus himself, as surely his cousins were not going to find themselves, and at the moment Turukáno was willing to put aside his own personal opinions of them in favor of another’s insight.  
It had been by chance that he had seen the halfling again, the small creature standing alone once again deeply interested in some thick volume he had come by in the library. Having refused himself the convenience of remaining in the dark about halflings and their culture, Turukáno had sent himself off the the library not an hour after that last conversation with Elrond and had returned knowing quite a bit more and not a little curious about what one might be doing traveling in a company of dwarves. Dwarves, Turukáno remembered had always been rather gruff and rude, it had been unsurprising that his cousin Carnistir had favored their company, as Turukáno had always thought of the ellon in the same way.  
The halfling, Bilbo Baggins, had been rather ecstatic to see him, rising bowing and shaking his hand rather profusely, reintroducing himself what must have been three times and seeming genuinely chuffed to find that Turukáno did indeed desire his company. After being accosted by a virtual avalanche of inquiries and doing his best to honestly answer the various probes about living in the first age of arda -a topic approached hesitantly and reverently by the hobbit as if it was simply impossible for someone to remember such a thing- Turukáno finally pushed himself into a more active role in the conversation, cutting off the hobbit before he could ask one more question about “the golden caves of Nargothrond” which if he was being truthful, Turukáno had never bothered to visit, his own city being the clear superior, Turukáno quietly asked,  
“Yet, Bilbo Baggins, may I ask a question of my own, for it has been nagging me since our meeting.” It was a statement, and though the halfling might not have noticed it, his phrasing left very little room for disent unless the clear intention was to offend,  
“I would be honored to answer a question of yours Lord Turgon” He said earnestly, prompting a smile from Turukáno which was so slight he doubted the hobbit would ever know of its existence.  
“I have taken it upon myself in these recent days to learn something of your people, and I must admit it puzzles me that you, seemingly against all the history of your lands and laws, should decide to venture out beyond the safety of your home.” Smiling ruefully, Turukáno realized the pathetic parallel to his own story and added humorlessly,  
“Perhaps I seek to better understand myself, who once took the same actions you have.” The hobbit looked taken aback, clearly it had not come into his mind that he and the elf lord might share something in common, and he puffed out his chest a little in pride, wrinkling his brow in deep thought. When he finally spoke near a minute later, it was soft and hesitating as if even he was unsure of the truth of his statements,  
“To be completely honest Lord Turgon, I could not tell you the reason I finally decided to leave. Certainly, I was influenced, pulled along by the meddling wizard Gandalf,-” At this Turukáno let out an involuntary snort of laughter, trying to imade how the proud Maia Olórin had first reacted to being called a meddling wizard, and Bilbo, after casting him a bemused look, simply picked up his tale again,  
“In the end, it simply turned out that I was there, and I should hope that looking back at the end of my adventure I can say it was by my own will. I think it is a dangerous thing going out your door, for if you don’t the keep your feet, there is no telling where you may be swept off to.” Turukáno nodded,  
“Wise words.” he replied simply, and curiously watched the halfling out of the corner of his eye. They were certainly a strange people, the Hobbits, childish and innocent, and Turukáno certainly had not expected such wisdom to fly easily from Bilbo’s mouth. He resolved to talk to Elrond about it later.  
“But what might be the subject of such an adventure that would draw a Hobbit to the road?” He asked, and Bilbo blushed a deep red, muttering something Turukáno didn’t catch, which he repeated slightly louder when prompted,  
“Thorin doesn’t want us speaking of it to elves.” With a single dip of his head, Turukáno accepted the fact, already measuring the halfling up to see how much persuasion it would take to get the answer out of him. The answer, as it turned out, was none, for Bilbo went on in a rush,  
“I do want another opinion on it though, you elves seem very wise and old.” He blushed deeper at the amused look Turukáno sent him,  
“Very well, we shall see if I manage to live up to such lofty demands.” He said humorously, though he wasn’t sure of Bilbo caught onto his faciousness.  
“Thorin, he is the leader of our company, wants to retake his home, a mountain far in the east called Erebor. Right now it is inhabited by a dragon who killed many of his people when he came for their gold and forced them to flee. Thorin believes that if I can steal the arkenstone, he might be able to rally his people and fight the dragon for control.” Turukáno raised a skeptical eyebrow,  
“Dragon fighting,“ He said sardonically, “Has never been my area of expertise, for insight upon the wisdom of that action, I would go to Findaráto, my cousin.” Bilbo nodded earnestly, and Turukáno had a spasm of horror as he realized Bilbo was taking his suggestion seriously. He tried not to imagine what tortures Findaráto would cook up for him if and when the hobbit went to his cousin for advice.  
“Of this… Arkenstone?” Bilbo nodded, “I would hear more, what is it? I have never heard of an Arkenstone before.” Bilbo looked sheepish,  
“I have never seen it either, yet the way Thorin speaks of it… It’s a jewel, they found it in the center of their mountain. Thorin says it shines with its own light and all the colors as well as none.” Turukáno froze,  
“It… it’s a jewel?” He forced out, and Bilbo, not noticing his wide eyes and quick shallow breaths nodded,  
“Thorin says it was his grandfather’s most prized possession, he kept it above his throne so that all could see his power and his divine right to rule.”  
“Ah.” Was all Turukáno was capable of choking out. Bilbo, now looking up said in confusion,  
“Are you alright Lord Turgon? You look white as a sheet as if you have seen a ghost!” Turukáno offered him a tight and lopsided smile, diving an excuse to get him out of the conversation without offending the halfling,  
“Oh yes, worry not after my health Bilbo Baggins. Perhaps we may continue our conversation at a later date however? I had forgotten I agreed to meet with my companions about… one matter or another.” He stood, offering Bilbo a short bow, which the hobbit, slightly flustered at Turukáno’s sudden departure, responded to in kind,  
“I would like that Lord Turgon.” he said, giving the elf a worried smile, as if worried he had upset the elf lord, and Turukáno offered Bilbo the closest thing he could accomplish to a smile with his heart beating in his throat and the irrational terror of the past creeping up in his chest. He bowed again and turned walking briskly away to find his cousins.  
He wasn’t going to repeat the past, but the words of Mandos rang in his ears, all to clear.  
Aid the Halfling  
Reclaim the Silmaril  
Destroy the admirable  
Only then can you return.  
Turukáno couldn’t have cared less for the Valar, not after everything he had been through without a second thought on their part, not after everything he had lost, but Eru Illuvatar be damned if he was going to allow the past to repeat itself, to watch all the word go mad with lust over the jewels that were cursed and belonged to no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... It's been a while. Exams, and performances, and... oh well, it's finally OVER so that's what matters. I have to return my laptop to the school Wednesday, so that stinks, but I will still have my phone and desktop, so I should still be able to update regularly.
> 
> So yes, it's been longer than I anticipated, but I'm already started on the next chapter so it might even be out tomorrow. No 3 essays on the creation of the english language and the concept of loyalty to finish within an hour and forty minutes. Enjoy!


	10. Chapter 9 - Varyannë

Varyannë had allowed herself to slowly drift out of sight of the other elves of Imladris, fending off the heated insults and forcing her flaring temper down her throat in a way she had never had to before. Having been always encouraged to defend herself and her family, it was a strange, surreal, and discomforting experience to sit quietly and allow her name to be slandered to her face without whipping out a sword and demanding a quick apology or a quicker death.  
The days passing had sent her farther and farther into the shadows in an attempt to make herself invisible, unsure of the snapping point at which she might prove all of their mistrust and hatred founded. It had become practiced, see someone coming, run as fast as you can and plug your ears against their shouts of ‘Kinslayer’ and ‘Unworthy swine’. Varyannë had nearly become used to the rare contact, her only regular interactions with Elrond, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to look after her wellbeing, a hopeless case if she had ever seen one. Still, the elf lord had dismissed her subtle probes that perhaps he had somewhere more important to be than with her, simply stating,  
“I am repaying a debt.” And refusing to elaborate or leave her to complete isolation.   
It came as rather a surprise to her, then, when the rather enlightening history book she had been reading was rudely snatched from her hands by a determined looking Turukáno who, in response to her rather justified indignation, simply snapped,  
“We need to talk.” And marched away without another word. Somewhat bewildered, and rather offended by his seemingly foundationless temper, she stood and followed him, traversing only two halls before he turned abruptly left and pushed her roughly into a chair, one of three sitting on a balcony overlooking the valley.   
Turukáno sat himself, motioning towards Findaráto who was already present, looking nearly as clueless as Varyannë felt,   
“Pray tell cousin, what has occurred that has managed to shake you so?” She asked curiously, willing, for the moment, to overlook his less than gentle treatment and genuinely curious as to what could have upset the usually unflappable Turukáno so intensely.  
“Yes, please tell me what was so urgent that you half dragged me across the city and threatened me that if I dared to leave my chair it wouldn’t be Fëanáro who started the next Kinslaying?” Findaráto asked peevishly, and Varyannë shot her cousins a nasty look, mentally promising herself that the next time either of them brought that particular low point up he would be gently reminded that death had not diminished her ability to shut their mouths for them.  
“Really Findo, tell me more of these threats our nasty cousin gave you?” She said innocently, and Turukáno had the grace to blush slightly as he glared back at her,  
“It is history, not threats, yet it matters not. I know we all heard Mandos’ words-”   
“Indeed, rather enlightening to realize even here we cannot escape one doom or another.” FIndaráto put in dryly, and in response to another glare from Turukáno, he allowed his cousin to continue,  
“I believe I finally may have discovered a part of their meaning.” Varyannë let out a sarcastic snort giving her cousin a bow,  
“Well congratulations Turukáno ‘the Wise’, you have truly earned your name. Pray enlighten us commonfolk to your deep intellectual discoveries.” Turukáno gazed at her unimpressed, and Findaráto rolled his eyes,  
“Good to see you have not changed cousin.” he said coolly and Varyannë grinned,  
“Give me an occasion to change and perhaps then we will talk.” Was all she said, and Findaráto raised an eyebrow,  
“I would have thought death might count for one, but clearly the arrogance of the Feanorians exceeds the abilities of Mandos to curtail.” Varyannë narrowed her eyes, opening her mouth to make a rather pointed response about Findaráto’s own grating personality but was cut off by Turukáno,  
“We can save our heartwarming family discussions for another time. My ‘deep intellectual discoveries’ as you put it cousin, have led me in the past days into the company of one who calls himself Bilbo Baggins, a member of the race of Halflings, or Hobbits as Lord Elrond has said they call themselves.” At this, both Varyannë and Findaráto looked upwards and met his eyes, and somewhere within them, Varyannë thought she caught a glimmer of satisfaction, and perhaps even a little hope,  
“Go on cousin, I will not interrupt.” She said, and Findaráto nodded in agreement, yet Turukáno hesitated for a moment, something clouding his eyes before he continued,  
“He spoke to me of an… adventure I believe was the word he used, yet I think quest might be a more appropriate one. He and a company of dwarves seek to reclaim their home which has been stolen by a dragon.”   
“While fascinating, I fail to see the connection to Mandos’ declamation” Varyannë pointed out, and Turukáno nodded,  
“I did too, for surely this was the only halfling we have come into contact with, and perhaps I overstep my rights, but it seemed a tad extreme to send three of us to aid him on a harmless quest, yet when I asked how they planned to accomplish such a feat as killing a dragon, the Halfling told me of a jewel which the leader of the dwarven company has asked Bilbo Baggins to steal in order to unite the dwarves against the dragon. He said… he said it was Thorin -the dwarf’s- most prized possession and a sign of his divine right to rule. I know, perhaps alone this would mean nothing,`` he said in response to the doubtful glances Findaráto and Varyannë were casting one another,   
“Yet it gave me pause, for we are supposed to aid a halfling, AND reclaim a Silmaril, and the Halfling, he described the jewel as shining with a light of its own, all the colors and none of them contained within it. There was an odd reverence to his tone as well, though Bilbo Baggins claimed never to have seen the gem before. He called it the Arkenstone.” Varyannë shifted uncomfortably,  
“We cannot jump to conclusions, this could simply be a stone given to the dwarves by Aulë, could have nothing to do with the Silmarils at all.” She said, but then hesitated, whispering uncertainly,  
“You think it is the one Nelyo reclaimed don’t you.” Turukáno nodded,  
“From what we know, your brother sent that jewel deep into the heart of the earth. It does not seem too unlikely to me that it ended up within the heart of this mountain the Dwarves made their home, Erebor. ‘Divine right to rule?’ I truly mean no offence Varyannë, yet does that not sound uncannily similar to your father’s beliefs?” Varyannë attempted to hide the agonizing compression occuring around her heart, but she nodded,  
“Perhaps not the divine, but Atar certainly believed the crown was his right, for better or worse.” Findaráto shifted, drawing their attention to him and said definitively,  
“We should not assume anything before consulting others. It makes no sense to assume the worst, that we will have to steal from those we should be helping, without the agreement of others who are wise on these matters.” Varyannë took a deep breath in and out, pushing out of her mind the bloody images that arose when Turukáno had mentioned the Silmarils, the innocent lives lost on a hopeless chase for lost gemstones. She had wondered then if her father had not perhaps gone a little mad after Finwë’s death, should not perhaps have been locked away to resolve his own grief before being given command of a people and a crown to make decisions on top of his head.   
“Who exists in this time who would have any knowledge of the past we might reliably trust?” She asked resignedly, fearing she already knew his answer,  
“Olórin, for one. Elrond for another, and perhaps the two of them know of others.” Findaráto responded, and Turukáno nodded,  
“We should not assume on our own without confirmation our beliefs are true.” The two ellons stood, yet Varyannë still sat, rooted into place by her worries, her mind sinking deep into visions of her own corruption and destruction at the hands of her father’s jewels.   
They had been cursed by the tainted magic of Morgoth, all they drew was death betrayal and madness. All who had faced them had fallen, and Varyannë counted herself in that number.   
“Speak cousin, what worries you.” Findaráto said softly, his voice more empathetic than she had heard it since they had all left Valinor, and she glanced up, masking her brooding expression with something more light and shrugging,  
“It is nothing, you are correct, we should not expect the worst.” She stood and followed the other two off the balcony in search of Olórin and Elrond, unable to keep herself from wondering morbidly how long it would be before she too went mad with lust over cursed jewels and whether her mother would care to claim her if she ever saw her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** Author's Note***
> 
> Two updates in two days, I'm impressed with myself! 
> 
> Regarding Turgon's statement about the Kinslayings: Although I am working off a plot where the three elves are aware of all of history including the amount of time that has passed at this point in the book, I imagine that hearing or even seeing the events from a third person perspective is rather different from actually being a part of them, and as such Turgon's threat is speaking of the last Kinslaying he would have been present for as it is actually in his memory.
> 
> Names reminder just in case:
> 
> Turukáno - Turgon
> 
> Findaráto - Finrod
> 
> Nelyo - Nelyafinwë, Russandol, Maitimo, Maedhros (love and support all names)
> 
> Olórin - Gandalf
> 
> Mandos - (also Námo, I've used both at this point) Vala of death/doom (real cheery)
> 
> Fëanáro - Feanor
> 
> Regarding my statement about the SIlmarils: This is totally non canonical, I'm pretty sure Tolkien never actually had Morgoth corrupt the Silmarils, but for a bit of artistic flair, I am adding this in as it works quite well with the story line. Hope y'all don't mind, it honestly doesn't change much. Anyways, until next time, which I hope won't be too far away!


	11. Chapter 10 - Elrond

The three elves looked somewhat intimidating, sitting shoulder to shoulder with identical frowns on their faces as they stared intently at him, putting him in the mind of his sons who often unconsciously mirrored each other. It was a fine line Elrond was riding, maintaining the somber expression he had assumed over breaking into a fit of laughter or beginning to cry over how terribly similar their faces were to Maedhros and Maglor whom had long ago lost.  
Finrod[c] shifted ever so slightly in his seat, tilting his head to the side, and the effect was lost, bouncing back Elrond’s mind to the question they had asked that had sent him into silence.  
“What do you know about the dwarven Arkenstone?” It had been an odd question, caught him off guard as all the three had been asking up to that point was about general topics of history for which they were not present. What did Elrond know of the Arkenstone? Next to nothing. He had visited the dwarven kingdom of Erebor at its height, a torchlit maze of perfect angles and corners, indeed, Elrond had seen the stone itself, watched it’s pulsing light shift and spin tantalizing, as if beckoning him towards it, to touch it, and after that one encounter, Elrond had stayed far away and sent his missives by letter instead of in person. The Arkenstone, whatever it might symbolize to the dwarves, had been the source of great internal unease which Elrond could not quite put a name to.  
That these particular three elves would come asking about it somewhat unnerved him, and narrowing his eyes slightly he thought he detected a flicker of panic somewhere in the back of each of their eyes, though if he had learned anything of Finrod, Turgon, and Aistel it was that their personalities rarely, if ever, aligned to create a united front. Perhaps it was this effect that unnerved him, and not the question itself.  
“The Arkenstone…” he said quietly, carefully analyzing their reactions, questions, new and old, accosting his mind with the force of a small army. Giving in to one older, yet still vital question, he cut off his own answer in favor of a question to layer upon their own,  
“Those who return from the West never do so without purpose in my experience. Lord Glorfindel -” Aistel stiffened, an odd expression crossing her face, and Elrond forced himself not to pause and ask after it,  
“- Returned with aid against Sauron, what is the purpose the Valar have assigned your presence?” Finrod’s eyes flickered over the other two, some silent discussion clearly taking place before he said out loud,  
“No, he has treated us well, as others might not have. He can know.” Ignoring the exasperated, reluctant, and angry looks he received from his cousins, Finrod turned his eyes to Elrond, and said lightly,  
“We were sent by Mandos as near as I can figure, though why his choice was us three I couldn’t explain. When-”  
“Aid the Halfling, Reclaim the Silmaril, Destroy the Admirable, and then run right back West so the Valar can keep imprison us in Mandos again.” Aistel cut him off, scoffing at the offended look on Finrod’s face,  
“Please cousin, it would have taken at least ten more minutes for you to actually get to answering his question. All I am doing is expediting, as you seemed to want him to actually know before the day was over.” Finrod shot her a disgusted glance that was at least half honest, and turned away from her, and Elrond valiantly attempted not to roll his eyes at their pointless arguments, the meaning beneath their question hitting him in full force a moment afterward,  
“Correct me if I have misinterpreted; you believe that the Arkenstone, which I am not even sure how you know the existence of, is a silmaril?” He could not keep the undertones of incredulity out of his voice, and Turgon shot him a sharp look,  
“Is it so difficult to imagine? Logically, the silmaril Maitimo… took would not remain underground, the heat convection of magma would eventually send it to the surface, or near the surface. It is not so far flung from there that perhaps image that it found itself in the heart of the mountain of the Dwarves.” As much as he hated to admit it, Elrond could see the logic in this assumption, and let out a long sigh,  
“The little I know of the Arkenstone is this; Thror, the late king of Erebor took the jewel as a sign of his divine right to rule, a sign from the Valar I suppose, or a sign from Aulë at least. Not too long after the Jewel found its place as a beacon on his throne, Thror began to show signs of madness and the hospitality of the dwarves of Erebor greatly diminished.” Aistel shook her head, her eyes downcast and her hands clenched tightly in her lap,  
“That sounds unfortunately familiar. Did you ever see it Lord Elrond?” Her voice was dry, every word sounding sarcastic and bold. If Elrond had not been raised by her brothers he might have thought she was goading him into anger, but he could detect beneath her words the same adrift loneliness he had so often heard in Maedhros and Maglor. Dipping his head in the affirmative, he replied,  
“It was uncannily similar to the descriptions of the silmaril which have been proven to be credible. I must admit however that I paid it no mind until this very moment. What led you to put two and two together?” Turgon shifted in his seat uncomfortably, drawing Elrond’s eyes in his ancestor’s direction.  
“Speaking to the halfling you found me with nearly a week ago. We were discussing his quest and the prospect of slaying a dragon and he described the jewel to me. It seemed oddly fortuitous that there should be a halfling whom we were sent to aid and a mysterious glowing jewel with divine powers without the two being connected to our purpose of being in middle earth.” Elrond furrowed his eyebrows rubbing a temple in thought,  
“If indeed what you say is true, I rather doubt that Mithrandir, I suppose you would call him Olórin, is not aware of this matter. The fact that he chose to act upon such a discovery without the approval of other powers is disturbing. I suppose I shall have to summon The White Council.” Aistel let out a snort of laughter and Elrond raised a questioning eyebrow,  
“I could not help but notice that you said that a bit less than enthusiastically. Who is on this council you wish to avoid contact with?” At Elrond’s scandalized and indignant spluttering, she truly laughed, a ringing bell like sound that surprised him in its open joyfulness,  
“Oh please, I have more experience than most with summoning unwanted but necessary people to a war council.” Finrod sent her another hurt look and exclaimed,  
“Hey!” But she simply waved him off,  
“You didn’t want to be there any more than I did.” And he reluctantly agreed. Elrond shook his head, still trying to wrap his head around the idea that there had been a silmaril -a SILMARIL- right under his nose for centuries without him even realizing it; but then with a grin he realized perhaps he was not the most nearsighted of the council. After all, hadn’t Galadriel had direct contact with the silmarils, all three of them, in the past? Elrond found himself suddenly looking forwards to the council and seeing the expression of his mother-in-law’s face when she heard the news. In response to Aistel’s question, he simply shot her a conspiratorial smile and said,  
“On the contrary, Aistel Feanorian, I am greatly looking forward to seeing everyone’s faces when they realize the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Sindarin names: Elrond, because he never lived in Valinor, thinks and speaks in Sindarin despite the probable fact that he learned Quenya in his time with M & M, so Sindarin names will be used.
> 
> Upcoming: I get to the actual plot of the story and introduce the rest of the main characters (cough all the dwarves cough)


	12. Chapter 11 - Findaráto/Thorin

Findaráto couldn’t help but think that they would have been an odd sight to any casual bypasser, three elves crouched behind a bush spying upon a dwarf. The dwarf was tall for his race, crowned with dark hair, grey streaked by age, and bore himself like royalty though his clothing was modest. According to Turukáno, who had gained his information from the halfling he had made the acquaintance of, this was Thorin Oakenshield who led the company of dwarves Findaráto and his cousins intended to align themselves with.   
Thorin Oakenshield seemed unaware of the six ancient eyes tracking his every move, his attention fully focused upon the sheet of red hot metal he was steadily pounding into submission. Findaráto turned to ask Varyannë a question about the technique he was utilizing, and found his cousin intently watching the dwarf with slightly narrowed eyes, whispering miniscule corrections to his form and technique, clearly unaware of what she was doing.   
“No, to the right … yes, there! …. Needs to be heated a half degree …” Findaráto elbowed her with a frown and murmured,  
“We are here to offer aid and receive help, not turn the dwarf into a Fëanárin smith.” Varyannë jumped, and gave him a guilty smile, sealing her lips together. Turukáno glanced over at the two and muttered,  
“Yes, but will he accept it?” and Varyannë shook her head,  
“Not likely. He seems to hate elves. Why I can’t possibly imagine, but he does.” Findaráto rolled his eyes and watched her, practically able to hear the gears slowly turning inside of her head forming a plan, and was unsurprised when a moment later she turned to him with an idea lighting up her eyes. It was a half excited, half proud expression he had once seen on her brothers’ faces in Nargothrond, one he had happily indulged until it caused his own downfall.  
“Well? As you put it, I have a habit of taking ten minutes to say one word, and you very clearly have a plan, so explain or move on.” Wincing at his own tone, cold and sharp though she should not have taken the blame for Tyelkormo and Curufinwë’s wrongdoings, he waited for her response biting back an apology.   
Swallowing back her own words with clear difficulty, she simply began to explain,  
“From prior… observation-”   
“Unofficial espionage.” Turukáno corrected with a guilty grimace, and Varyannë glared at him,  
“Should I silence myself and let you two complain until the sun sets or do we actually want to get somewhere by the end of the day?” She asked indignantly, and Findaráto, sensing the imminent explosion about to occur between the two, stepped in,  
“Continue cousin. We both wish to hear your epiphany.” She turned her baleful glare onto him, but receiving only a raised eyebrow in return reluctantly continued,  
“We know Thorin Oakenshield distrust elves, as I pointed out previously, yet he carries Ecthelion’s sword -though how and where he found that is not clear, as clearly, Gondolin is underwater- and uses an elven forge without second thought. I, for the purposes of optimism and this plan, will take this to mean he respects well made works and purpose, which would give us the opportunity to give him no choice but to accept our help if we prove ourselves well made and purposeful.” Findaráto laughed quietly, sadly reflecting on how very like her brother she sounded, comparing lives to swords as if there was little difference. Forcing his breath through a suddenly tight chest, he responded,  
“I think there is more to it than that, but any plan is better than none.”  
*****  
Though Thorin would not admit it to a soul, Rivendell was surprisingly calm, rejuvenating, and homey. Certainly, the elven city could not compare in the slightest to Erebor, the home he had lost to fire, but it had certainly grown on him over the last few weeks. To reside in a house with free access to a forge! Thorin couldn’t remember the last time he had done that, and he intended to make full use of this opportunity while he could.   
Leave the others to their feasting and music making, or the hobbit to his obscene fraternization with the elves, Thorin had found himself a sanctuary -a sanctuary which was suddenly not his alone.   
Frozen outside the graceful curving entrance to the forge, Thorin stared in shock at the sight within; fires already lit, heat already pumping in waves over his face. It was occupied as it had not been once in his two weeks of use. The smith currently within was of a small stature for an elf, willowy in a manner more reminiscent of a dancer than any smith Thorin had ever known, and despite the men’s clothing and messy sweat moistened hair, most definitely female. It wasn’t that female was forbidden in the requirements of being a smith, simply rare and nearly unheard of in all Thorin’s days of smithing. A female elvish smith sounded like a joke, or a myth told to allow children to believe anything was possible.   
Spotting Thorin, the she-elf offered him a bright smile -too bright, that fire in her eyes couldn’t be natural- and motioned him in,  
“Please join me, Master Dwarf, there is always room for another.” Her speech was lilting and songlike, vowels exaggerated and s’s softened into th’s.   
The heavy accent however did very little to endear her to Thorin, who suspiciously entered the forge and resumed his project, casting her mistrustful glances at a regular interval. It took nearly two hours for Thorin to finally give up attempting to deny her existence, her quiet humming and the odd fuzziness surrounding her - as if the air was charged with lightning waiting to shock whoever came too close - betraying her presence very effectively. Casting another glare in her direction, Thorin came up short as he met her eyes, surprised to find her already tracking his movements.   
She was as still as a statue, her interest in her work seeming to have vanished into thin air as she curiously watched him, clearly deep in thought. Giving her head a quick shake, she offered Thorin a smile,  
“My apologies, the welding of two blade halves using a liquid is a method I have never seen before and I find it rather fascinating, though I cannot help wondering why a liquid might be used where a blend of gasses works equally as well?” Thorin blinked once, shock at her familiarity with the subtleties of the craft catching him off guard.   
“I would assume by gasses you speak of the mixture commonly used by men and elves?” the elleth shrugged,  
“I do not know what might have changed since I last stepped foot in a forge, but for this purpose we will assume yes.” Thorin took her unusual response in stride and replied,  
“The gasses of that mixture are unstable and difficult to contain. I was taught the art of welding with liquid as one of the most well guarded secrets of Erebor, my former home.” Pausing for a moment to gauge her response, where all he received was a quick bird-like nod, Thorin then hesitantly continued,  
“Where did you learn such intimate details of metal craft? In my experience with elves, their wielding of weapons is far greater than their knowledge of what goes into their creation.” The elleth laughed,   
“Not all are -or were- such. I was taught the art of the forge by my father who seemed convinced that all of his children would inherit his talent and ended very disappointed when only one did. None ever could match him, I believe he called my attempts ‘weak’ and ‘uninspired’ at their best. Now, it is a place for memory.” She narrowed her eyes, seeming to gaze right through him to his very soul. Shivering, Thorin ignored her next query,  
“I have not heard the tale of Erebor, would you tell me?” with his much more confident,  
“My business is no concern of elves,” and turned away, attempting to bury himself back into his work. Her eyes remained upon him however, and by the side-long glances Thorin threw in her direction he could see her face, an odd smile, dancing in the firelight in a manner reminiscent of the very dragon he seeked to kill. Shaking his head at his own stupidity for speaking to her at all, Thorin ignored her gaze -much too old and knowledgeable, full of hatred, anger, and yet still somehow hope- and turned to his work. Not ten minutes later he was rewarded, two elven faces, one light haired and one dark, appearing at the arched doorway and speaking with her same accent,   
“Cousin, the work can wait, come with us.” The light haired elf said with a grin that somehow looked ingenuine, and the elleth dropped her hammer where she stood and turned towards them. Thorin watched her go with a strange sense of relief, the air cooling slightly without her presence, but at the door she turned and saw him again,  
“You would be wrong to turn down help on this quest Thorin Oakenshield, wrong indeed, and I promise we three would prove invaluable. It was not until hours later, back in the company of his own kind, that Thorin realized he had never given her his name and never received her own. He shook his head, it didn’t matter what her presence did to his brain, or the clear power in her body, he would accept no help from elves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Ecthelion's sword being Orcrist - The book nor the movie ever puts a definitive owner on the sword, only says that it was famous for the number of goblins/orcs it killed and that it belonged to someone in Gondolin. In rereading The Fall Of Gondolin, I (assuming that it would have been wielded by someone important) assigned it to Ecthelion for the number of goblins he killed (supposedly the most of any warrior ever - good for him). 
> 
> On welding - PLEASE APPRECIATE THE AMOUNT OF WORK THAT WENT INTO MAKING THIS ACCURATE! I am out of school, and what is the first thing I do? Go and spend an hour and a half researching welding processes! Why am I like this? 
> 
> I have a blank space, and then 2 chapters already written out, my writing is actually all over the place. Epilogue, like 6 chapters at random places, now I just have to fill in the gaps.


	13. Chapter 12 - for future writing

Hi guys, no, this is not an update (y'all gotta wait like 5 minutes for that). I have been suffering severe writer's block over this chapter for about 8 weeks, hence the no updates. 

I am super sorry about the hiatus, I have legitimately annotated the entire book and written about 3 chapters beyond what is supposed to be in this one, but my mind is still absolutely out of thoughts for this bit. I will come back and write this chapter, but I figured you all deserve for me to just keep going, so here's the break down of what happens between now and when I pick up the story:

\- White Council scene (Gandalf and Findaráto)

\- somehow getting T, F, and V to force their way into quest

\- goodbyes to valley

\- yeeting ourselves up a cliff and into a giant storm in which we must somehow find shelter

\- magical cave that appears in just the right place and just the right time

 

So, my meager planning that I was going to use to create this chapter placed Varyannë and Turukáno actually with the dwarves while Findaráto (it is a pain in the neck to write Quenya names a thousand times) is still with Gandalf in Rivendell. So that catches us up to where I resumed writing, again, I am so sorry that I let this go so long, I thought my creativity would reappear soon, and it has taken school starting (ew, gross) to realize that my creativity never existed and I should really get my butt off the ground and get this going again. 

On a brighter note, I was given a soloist role in the company choreography of Sleeping Beauty (for those of you not in the dance world, this is already a big deal) even though I was placed in a class with people 3-5 years older than me (for those of you not in the dance world, this is a BIG DEAL, not that I'm flexing or anything). Anyways, now my absence is over, and the story shall resume, thank you for your patience.

Signing out (for 5 minutes)


	14. Chapter 13 - Bilbo

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably on the hard unforgiving ground of the cave, unable for the life of him to find sleep, though the dwarves around him seemed to have no trouble judging by their unconcerned snores. 

With a sigh, Bilbo sat up, quietly attempting to gather his belongings around him. It didn't matter how hard he pretended, how long he ignored the whispered insults behind his back, the fact remained that elves, unnamed enemies to Thorin's mind, belonged on this quest more than he did, and there was quite honestly no point to his presence besides to fulfill the wishes of a wizard. Stuffing his wet clothing into his pack, Bilbo stood and began creeping over the sleeping dwarves towards the exit of the cave. He jumped rather vehemently as he heard someone whisper,

"Where do you think you're going?" Bilbo turned, his heat pounding in his chest, and saw Bofur watching him out of the shadows, Varyannë almost invisible by his side. Setting his jaw in determination, he faced Bofur's confusion and Varyannë's calculated scrutinization and answered,

"Back to Rivendell." Bofur shook his head, shock overcoming his open features,

"No, no you can't turn back now, you're part of the company, you're one of us!" Bilbo let out another sigh, and bit his lip,

"I'm not though, am I? Thorin said I never should have come, and he was probably right. I've done nothing but hold you back since I stepped out my front door. I don't know what I was thinking, I never should have." Varyannë watched him with a soft smile on her face, and Bilbo frowned at her,

"What?" He asked, confused and her smile widened more,

"You are homesick. I think we all understand-"

"No, no you don't. You said it yourself, you haven't had a home in four ages, and you-" he cut off Bofur's attempt to interrupt,

"-You are Dwarves! You are used to this life, living on the road, not belonging anywhere!" Bofur's expression fell, and Varyannë frowned reproachfully at him,

"I'm sorry I-" He muttered, already regretting his words, but Varyannë shook her head,

"I believe that this was not the first time either of us have heard that said, yet to hear it from a friend hurts more than to hear it from an enemy." She whispered, and Bilbo was shocked to realize that he had truly hurt the elf. 

"You're right," Bofur said softly, "We don't belong anywhere, any of us. If you have a home, we have no right to hold you back from it. I won't tell." he responded, and Bilbo nodded sadly, and turned once again towards the door, feeling on his hip for his ...sword he turned back towards his now vacated sleeping spot and groaned as he saw it sitting there, completely forgotten. He turned back for it, and heard a strange crackling noise, a creaking squeak as of uncoiled hinges, and he looked up in horror, just in time to see long fingers appearing in a steadily widening crack in the back of the cave. He let out a shout, and jumped backwards, awakening the dwarves who grumbled angrily, but Varyannë was already shouting,

"Out! Out of the cave! Now!" Leaping forwards to pull anyone she could reach backwards, but before anyone could say another word, goblins swarmed into the cave, six to each dwarf, dragging them roughly towards the crack. Turgon jumped to his feet grabbing a blade from a hidden sheath Bilbo couldn't quite see, and slicing through any goblin who dared to come within arm's length of him, making quickly for the exit of the cave, but Varyannë herself was dragged down, cursing in at least three different languages, the words Manwë, Olórin, and Turukáno prominent in the subjects of her scorn. She threw well aimed punches and kicks at the goblins who surrounded her, yet finally she and all thirteen dwarves were pulled through the crack, the only one remaining on the right side of it Turgon who shouted,

"Wait, Vary-" Before the crack jumped shut and the goblins began poking and prodding the fifteen prisoners towards an unseen destination. 

The path the goblins led them down was dark and damp, the kind that Bilbo had heard of only in stories around a fire in the safety of the shire, the type of dark that Bilbo's eyes couldn't penetrate and from Varyannë's continued curses, now invoking such names as Ungoliant and Morgoth, even impenitrable to the eyes of elves. The goblins were not gentle, and Bilbo shivered and ran as fast as he could from the pinching and whipping and ugly laughter of the goblins. 

Now ahead of him he could see the semblance of a throne, and a huge goblin sitting atop it, and the goblins' laughter grew more gleeful and malevolent with every step they took. Stopping before the king, for that was who Bilbo assumed the throned goblin was, the goblins cackled behind them, half raising their whips and thrusting the fifteen prisoners before the feet of the goblin. 

"Who are these miserable persons?" The goblin king asked gleefully, and one of the goblins cried out,

"Dwarves, and these two." Poking at Bilbo and beside him Varyannë. She stood defiant and tall, a proud sneer etched onto her features, and Bilbo took strength from her courage, the fiery glow in her eyes which Bilbo found off-putting seeming to frighten the goblin king twice as much as it harmed anyone else, and assuming an almost warm touch in Bilbo's eyes. 

"What do you mean by it?" The goblin king asked and turned to Thorin who had stepped forward to protect the others,

"Do you come armed as spies? Thieves? Assassins? Up to no good for sure, murderers and friends of elves no doubt." Varyannë looked affronted, 

"I AM an elf!" She said hotly, and the goblin king turned to her, a slow smile spreading across his face,

"Indeed! Well, we have never had an elven slave before, how fun it will be to watch you break!" He looked truly exited at the prospect, and Bilbo found himself feeling rather faint,

"I will never suffer the thralldom of your people." She said with disgust and not just a little vehemence, never the less her face fading to a shade of white Bilbo had never seen on a living being before. The goblin king smiled,

"No? We shall see." he turned back to Thorin, and narrowed his eyes,

"What are you doing in these parts? Speak!" And Thorin shifted, raising his chin to meet the goblin's eyes,

"We are simply traveling to meet our kin who live beyond these mountains. We mean your people no harm if you do not harm us." He responded, but the goblin who had spoken earlier gave a cackle and dragged forwards Thorin's blade,

"He is a liar, my king, many of our people lie dead at the front gate by the hands of one of his company, and he has not explained this!" he unsheathed the blade and a cry of dismay went through the goblins, squaks of terror and screams accompanying it's appearance,

"Biter! Murderers and elf-friends, slash them, beat them, bite them, tear them to pieces! feed them to a pit of snakes and never let them see the light of day again!" He yelled as Varyannë yelled, her eyes blazing,

"I AM an elf you miserable orc-spawn!" And at least five more goblins and jot jump forwards to restrain her she she jumped forwards at the king, clearly ready to tear his head from his shoulders with her bare hands. Bilbo was, in that moment quite glad to be small and unseen, and it was in this chaos of anger and fear that very suddenly and without explanation, a blast of light issued from somewhere behind the goblins, and all the lights very suddenly went out, sparks of the blast flying among the goblins and burning them. 

With a cry of victory, Varyannë threw off the stunned goblins who had been holding her back and grabbed Thorin's blade from the goblin who still fearfully held it aloft. Leaping forwards she slammed the length of the blade into the Goblin King's belly, and gave a crazed laugh of delight before turning back towards the dwarves and ripping the blade unceremoniously from the king's stomach,

"There, a service to this world if there ever was one."

There was an ugly fire in her eyes, a madness almost, frighteningly intense and almost blinding to look at and Bilbo took a step back in fear as he heard a rushed voice saying,

"Follow me quickly!" the dwarves turned without a second thought and rushed after the voice, which had issued from beneath a pale light, the only light left in the entire place. Promptly, Bilbo heard another voice whisper,

"A bit overdramatic, but my uncle's brood always had a theatrical flair. Do not let her intimidate you." And he looked to his left, startled and saw Turgon's face looking gravely down at him. 

"You-" He said in astonishment, and the elf laughed,

"Yes me." He replied, and then called out to the larger group,

"Quicker, Quicker, or they shall catch us!" The group rushed off after Gandalf, for that was who carried the light, as Bilbo could now see, and they ran off towards what Bilbo could only hope was the exit. So caught up in the act of running just as far from the goblins as he could get, Bilbo didn't hear or see the figure creeping out of the shadows behind him, and only heard Turgon's shout of,

"Bilbo Baggins!" Before he felt himself very suddenly being jerked off the path and falling down... down... down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, 10 minutes later I finish editing. Since I have ranted in my fake chapter previously, there is very little left to say. I'll say sorry again, my brain is fighting me on that one chapter and I'm pretty annoyed, but what can one do? Glad to be back, Enjoy!
> 
> Cheers!


	15. Chapter 14: Varyannë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a very long while, and yet, here we are, back again. I know that this chapter is just a filler for others, but it needed to be written, and now that it is Thanksgiving break, I can get back to actually writing (hopefully). I have been so crazy busy this year, but hopefully, with this break, I can get back to writing what I want to write instead of essay after essay after essay. Thanks for sticking with this story and continuing to read, I really appreciate it, your reading heeps me writing!

Findaráto’s hand had gripped her shoulder tightly as they ran, as though certain that she would turn around and run straight back towards the fight if he let go of her, and Varyannë couldn’t honestly say for sure whether he had been incorrect. All she knew was that her body had nearly physically rejected being stuck within the oppressive underground environment, and had left all too eagerly at the opportunity to draw blood, the instinct for violence still so deeply ingrained into her system that it scared her.  
Now, under the free light of the trees, standing a little ways away from the group of dwarves arguing over some petty matter or another, she shivered at the recollection, and repressed a much stronger reaction to the memories of the events in the tunnels had dragged to the forefront of her mind. Pressing a finger to her temple, she shook her head firmly, as though this would dislodge the memory of her skeletal brother the night he had returned from Angband, the sight of his ravaged body and lifeless limbs.  
She jumped as a foot crunched in the leaves behind her and was crouched in a defensive position, sword half-drawn before she realized that it was Findaráto who stood behind her. Frowning guiltily and dropping her hands to her sides, she murmured,  
“My apologies. You really ought to make more noise when sneaking up behind me.” He frowned reproachfully at her for a moment, then stepped forwards, staring at her face analytically,  
“Olórin has called us all back, we seem to be missing one.” Varyannë now searched his face, pushing her emotions to the back of her mind as more important matters took precedence. There was something hesitant in his expression that she decided on the spot she did not like,  
“Might I ask who?” FIndaráto grimaced and shook his head,  
“The halfling of course. Who else could it possibly have been?” Varyannë sighed, already thinking up ten possible scenarios ending in death and one hundred possible ways to fix them,  
“Of course it is. Our quest could not possibly have been simple.” She grinned sardonically at him and turned on her heel, walking briskly back towards the clearing, careful not to close her eyes for a steadying breath until her face was out of his line of vision. The sound of raised voices were clearly audible, and grew more distinct with each step she took, individual voices breaking away from the general buzz of the group until she stepped into the clearing, Findaráto a few steps behind her and heard Thorin say loudly,  
“I will tell you what happened, Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door.” Varyannë let out a long low breath, shaking her head slightly,  
“And what in Arda is wrong with that? Wanting to go home, is that not what your whole quest formed around?” Thorin looked over at her, his lip curling in disgust,  
“I have no need for the council of elves. Were it not for Gandalf, you would have been forsaken long ago.” Varyannë’s eyes narrowed slightly, opening her mouth to respond, but was never given the opportunity to speak, as Turukáno spoke up from the other side of the clearing,  
“Neither of you, intent as you are upon finding fault with each other, has managed in all of your quarreling to find a solution to this dilemma. Either the halfling is gone or he is not, and the question from this point is how to continue.” Thorin now turned to him, and shook his head in anger,  
“Have you not been listening? There is no longer any point in discussing the hobbit any longer. He is long gone.” Turukáno inclined his head slightly, raising one eyebrow in what could only be described as utmost satisfaction as a voice spoke up from behind Varyannë, causing her to jump rather forcefully as it said,  
“No, he isn’t.” Bilbo Baggins stepped out from behind a tree to her left, and entered the clearing, causing an audible sigh of relief to exit more than one mouth.  
“Bilbo Baggins.” Olórin said, a large smile cracking across his face, and Varyannë threw a glance behind her at Findaráto who’s face had entirely relaxed in a moment, giving him the appearance of an unmanned puppet. Varyannë felt her mouth twitch against her will at the sight, and turned quickly back to the hobbit who stood in the middle of the clearing now. He watched Thorin with an intensity in his eyes that Varyannë had not seen before, a deep understanding of some sort that she was dearly glad was not directed towards her. For a moment there was silence as the two regarded one another, and then the Bilbo blinked, shuffling his feet and turning his face towards the ground,  
“I know that you doubt me, I doubt me too, but it is like you said. I have a home, and none of you do. That doesn’t seem fair to me, so if I can, I’ll help you get yours back.” A heavy weight seemed to have fallen onto Varyannë’s chest as she watched the scene unfolding in front of her, and she turned away, letting her eyes find the mountains behind them rather than let any of those around her see the soft film of moisture on her eyes.  
If only it was as simple as that, a single quest and all could be forgiven. Varyannë shook her head firmly, refusing to allow any such thoughts to truly take hold, and instead focused on an odd moving blob moving down the mountain side, something that seemed to grow larger by the moment until Varyannë let out a slight gasp and reached behind her, grabbing and roughly shaking the first thing that she took hold of, which happened to be a large chunk of Findaráto’s hair.  
Her cousin pried her hands away and shot her a disgusted look, rubbing at his scalp angrily,  
“Varyannë. That was completely-” She cut him off, motioning towards the fast approaching blob which was not clearing, seperating into individual figures and Findaráto took in a breath through his teeth,  
“Perhaps we should leave.” He said in a strained voice, clearly attempting to remain calm while turning back to the company behind them,  
“Olórin, if I may say so, I believe that it is imperative that we leave this area now, and get as far away as physically possible.” When Olórin did nothing, Varyannë let out an impatient cry and turned to the others,  
“We need to run. Now.” She said simply, and there was no need for any more to be said, for at that moment a piercing howl split the air and dismayed understanding crossed the Maia’s face. Each of the dwarves took a moment to look towards the mountains, the blob now clearly visible as a hunting group of orcs. Then the group turned as one, and ran in the opposite direction as fast as their bodies would allow. It was with no small amount of irony that Turukáno turned to Varyannë and smiled tightly,  
“What was it your brother used to say? Do not let yourself escape the frying pan only to fall into the fire?” Taken aback, and completely surprised by the reference, Varyannë laughed and said,  
“Imagine if he could see us now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously don’t own any of this, it’s Tolkien’s.
> 
> Thanks for reading guys, it means a lot to me. my updates might be a little slow, as I mentioned in the summary, but I hope you'll stick with it. I might be using a mix of Quenyan and Sindarin names, so here's a quick guide to names in case it's confusing (I hope its not)
> 
> SINDARIN:MOTHER:FATHER:NICKNAME
> 
> Maedhros:Maitimo:Nelyafinwë:Nelyo
> 
> Maglor:Macalaurë:Canafinwë:Cano
> 
> Celegorm:Tyelkormo:Turkafinwë:Turko/Tyelko (I've seen both used, I'll use Turko)
> 
> Caranthir:Carnistir:Morifinwë:Moryo
> 
> Curufin:Atarinkë:Curufinwë:Curvo
> 
> (If any of these are wrong, don't sue me sue the internet for being a lying piece of s***)
> 
> Varyannë means woman of healing, and I'll also be using the Sindarin "Aistel" which means little star, or daughter of starlight, depending on how you translate it. I credit those names to FantasyNameGenorator, because wow, I definitely did not come up with those. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading, I'll hope to update soon, and if you have any ideas for where you think the story should go, I'd love to hear them, because I honestly don't really have a plan.


End file.
